


Abstruseness

by dilatory



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Doctor!Reader, F/M, Fluff, Humor, I will drown you in it, Kylo Ren is terrible, Now with Added Oneshot/Epilogues, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Slow Burn, Smut, because he is a wonderful trash can, because why not, but we tolerate him anyways, seriously so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 112,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilatory/pseuds/dilatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because, yes. Kylo Ren was fascinating. But he was also a temperamental man-child with a bucket on his head. And you liked your own head in its place and your throat intact, thank you very much. </p><p>“You saved his life,” Snoke said. “That puts you in the best position to control it.”</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>Kylo Ren/Reader<br/>(Post-Episode VII)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kylo Ren is unstable,” Snoke said. “The mix of light and dark within him is so strong, so pure. The force within him is incorruptible. It makes him powerful. His temper however, does not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first attempt at a Star Wars story. Wish my sorry ass luck.  
> And Kylo Ren, I love you, in all your trashy emo glory

Kylo Ren was a mystery based solely on the fact that he was _not_ a mystery.

You had seen more than your fair share of self-righteous toddlers throwing tantrums, and sure, this one had a crazy glowing death stick that could slice through metal panels, chairs, and most certainly your flesh, but still. _Toddler._ Not that you would ever _say_ that. Because like most people, you enjoyed the all the little pleasures of life—pickle sandwiches, the wind in your hair, and the simple fact that your head was attached to your person—and insulting Kylo Ren would most certainly bring an end to all of the above.

But back to the mystery.

At Starkiller Base, everyone hummed and whispered about _Kylo Ren_. Well, perhaps not _everyone_ , but _your_ acquaintances certainly. And you as well.

People would murmur silently into their morning coffees about how the dark menace had torn apart Training Room A9, or how you _really_ should avoid walking down such and such hallway until the maintenance teams had cleared away the rubble and live wires. But, destruction aside, the hushed whispers always seem to inquire _‘just who is he? ~~And who does he think he is?~~ ’_

 You always scoffed and thought _‘well, that’s a ridiculous question. He’s Kylo Ren—the temperamental man-child with a bucket on his head.’_ You thought you could sense a sprinkling of daddy issues topping off that hot mess (‘birds of a feather,’ and all that rubbish), but other than that, there really was no mystery to him.

And that, of course, was the reason you found him to be so mysterious.

Who didn’t have secrets? Certainly you did. As did all the captains and generals and every single stormtrooper that was wheeled into your infirmary. So what were his? Did it have something to do with the mask? Maybe he had bright green hair. Or _maybe_ he’d been cut up so badly that he was ashamed to show his face. Or _maybe_ he had _pink_ hair. Either way, the mundaneness of your inquiries drove you up the wall.

Someone called your name and you looked up with a start.

“What is it?”

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but Khan is ready in his cryotube.”

Your brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Your assistant flushed and shuffled to another page in his notes. “Ah. Sorry. KN-7768 is here for a checkup on that artificial foot.”

You cracked your neck and spun in your chair. “Now _that_ I can handle. Bring him in.”

Your musings about Kylo Ren and his baffling lack of mystery could wait.

.

.

.

Or so you thought.

.

.

.

You weren’t sure exactly when it happened, or how. You were sitting in your favorite chair, chin propped up on your fist and reading over Phasma’s report on past injury versus performance in the field. Then, without precursor, the ground began to rumble and the floor beneath your feet cracked and opened like the maw of some great beast.

Luckily, the First Order didn’t just hire any old doctor off the street and had made sure you had plenty of battle experience under your belt before adding you to their roster. Shit happens when you’re trying to take over the galaxy, and they wanted all their employees to know the risks and be prepared. You had trained for _years_ as soldier and a doctor. You knew the ins and outs of weapons and contusions alike. You were good at what you did and most anyone would acknowledge that with a bit of prompting.

Needless to say therefore, you had no problem stepping about a foot to the right to avoid falling into the black pit of doom and despair.

Alarms sounded overhead. Stormtroopers and medics alike swarmed the infirmary and you were hauled along in a hurry. Because the Starkiller Base was not only being blown up, but it seemed it was taking the rest of the planet with it.

For a moment you were confused. Not about the destruction of the place you’d called home for quite a few years, _no_ , but because you just couldn’t figure out _why_ anyone would send that many stormtroopers and medics after _you_ —a lowly army doctor. A dime a dozen. You could pick up a battle tested surgeon on any old planet. You weren’t a favorite of Snoke’s, in fact, you doubted the supreme leader even knew who you were. Hux found you obnoxious and far too laid back. And Kylo Ren, well he didn’t care about _anyone_. So why in their right minds would _anyone_ in a position of command bother saving _you—_

But then you were pushed into the small infirmary on the massive getaway craft and realized _ah. That’s why_.

Kylo Ren—or someone who you very much _assumed_ was Kylo Ren—was sprawled across one of the operating tables, swarmed with nurses and medical assistants. His face was cut open and singed, like he’d been kissed by sharp flame. Blood pooled from stab wounds spearing his chest and left calf. The most shocking thing of all though may have been the fact that his abdomen was _literally_ ripped open. You had to do a double take to make sure that, yep, that was a giant hole. Clear through his side. _Yep._

You would have liked to say that instinct took over—that you rushed to the side of the ~~attractive~~ dying man and saved the day like the fantastic hero that you were. But instead you stared and blinked slowly. _No pink hair_.

General Hux moved to your side. You glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye.

“Sir.”

He crossed his arms behind his back, locking his hands neatly beneath his stiff jacket.

“Well, doctor.” He nodded to the bleeding and broken dark knight. “You’ll fix him, won’t you?” He sounded so _disinterested_. And just a tad bit threatening.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Of course you will.”

And with that, you dove headfirst into the task of saving a man who was more black fabric than human, and who was littered with more holes than a party platter of Swiss cheese. Curiosity aside, you had the distinct feeling that if Kylo Ren died on your operating table, your own life would be snuffed out not long after. And that certainly helped spur you forward.

.

.

.

Eight hours, two rotations of assistants, and so many stitches and salve you’d lost track not twenty minutes into sewing him up, and Kylo Ren was out of the danger zone. He was most certainly banged up and you doubted he’d be doing anything productive for a while, but you’d pulled him out of the grave, and that had to count for something.

Two stormtroopers had come in a little less than halfway through, carting an unconscious Captain Phasma (apparently she’d been dumped into the trash compactor by some rebels). One of them had walked over to investigate the goings on at your operating table, only to promptly faint at the sight of you wrist deep in their superior’s innards.  

Sure, Ren’s injuries were terrible, but you’d seen worse. Particularly when it came to holes in abdomens. One stormtrooper had come into your care with his stomach and lower intestines torn clean through. He’d stumbled into your infirmary and when you’d reached out to get him onto the table, a wad of half-digested cereal had fallen from his torn bowels and right onto your shoe. Now _that_ had been traumatizing.  

The unconscious stormtrooper had been dragged from the room and you’d returned to scraping fragments of bone and charred tissue from the wound so that you could prepare to start re-growing the cells.

Hux hovered throughout the entirety of the procedure. Somehow, it felt disrespectful. _Mocking_ even. Like he thought that because he was looking down at the man on the table rather than splayed across it himself, that made him _better_. It was rubbing you the wrong way.

You finished wrapping the closed wound on his side and reached up to apply another layer of salve to the vicious red slash that crossed his face. You’d done what you could, but the cut was too deep, and whatever had done the job was too powerful, too unusual. There was no way you could have healed it completely. With all your efforts, the scar would fade to a thin, jagged, white line over time. But you liked to work without leaving a mark…

“I bet he’ll like it,” Hux commented. “He wanted to be Vader so badly, and now,” his lips curled into a slimy smirk, “I suppose he actually has a _reason_ to dawn that ridiculous mask of his.”

_Well. That was fucking **rude.**_

He turned on you with a snarl. “What did you just say.”

“Uh…”

Luckily for you, Phasma chose that moment to come spluttering back into consciousness and you turned from the fuming ginger to check on your second patient.

.

.

.

Kylo Ren may have been a not so mysterious mystery, but you thought you knew enough about him that you could assure the rest of the medical staff that yes, the precautions were necessary.

Sure, strapping the head of the Knights of Ren down to a hospital bed may not earn you any brownie points, but right now he was _your_ patient. And when he woke up, he would try to leave. And you certainly couldn’t have that. You’d worked so hard on the new tissue lining his side, and you would _not_ let him ruin it during one of his gargantuan tantrums.

But there were more pressing matters at hand. Snoke (or more accurately, a hologram of Snoke) had demanded to speak with you.

The Supreme Leader of the First Order was curious about the fate of his manic pupil. Hux was a dick and Phasma was nursing a nasty concussion, so that left you. You reported to his chambers ( ~~did a hologram really need its own room? Seemed wasteful in your opinion~~ ) and you stood politely as his scarred face peered down at you, impassive.

“Kylo Ren will survive the night, then?”

“Yes, sir. And far into the future. Provided he’s not stabbed or something of that nature.” You hesitated. “Of course, I’ll do my best to fix him up again if that happens.” Another pause. “Not that it _will_ happen. I just…” you trailed off and shut your mouth with a firm snap. You were digging a deep hole. Best to stop ASAP.

Snoke relaxed back, as if the real him (wherever he was) was making himself more comfortable atop a throne.

“I see. Very good.”

You had absolutely no idea what part of your ramblings he was referring to. You assumed the tidbit about Ren being well enough to not keel over and _die_ over the course of the next few hours. “Yes, sir.”

Those pale blue eyes of his bore down at you—both eerily calm and intimidating.

“Kylo Ren is unstable,” Snoke said. “The mix of light and dark within him is so strong, so pure. The force within him is incorruptible. It makes him powerful. His temper however, does not.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion.

“He needs stability in his life,” he continued.

“Excuse me, sir. But he has you, doesn’t he? You are his mentor, aren’t you?”

“A teacher should provide support for his pupil, yes,” Snoke hummed, his voice a soft whisper, like wind playing through the leaves on a summer day. “But it is not the purpose of a master to coddle his student. The master is above it all—the master passes on his teachings, and often times the lessons that accompany that knowledge may be too difficult for his student to bear.” He tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “I cannot be the rock that Kylo needs, nor will I bother to attempt it.”

Something began to claw its way up your throat.

“I’m sorry, sir. But are you suggesting… that I…”

“He requires discipline,” Snoke cut in. “A firm hand to hold the reins when I cannot.” At this he leaned forward. “And there is something about you. I can’t quite put my finger on it, doctor.”

 _Panic._ That’s what was slowly sinking its talons into your flesh as it shimmied its way up your esophagus.

Because, yes. Kylo Ren was fascininating. But he was also _a tempermental man-child with a bucket on his head._ And you liked _your_ head in its place and your throat intact, thank you very much.

“You saved his life,” Snoke said. “That puts you in the best position to control it.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I—I mean, I can’t—I—I’m a surgeon. Not a—a—” _an intergalactic babysitter_.

“Go check on your patient, doctor.”

“Sir, I—”

And then Snoke was gone.

.

.

.

When you got back to the infirmary you shouldn’t have been surprised to see two of your assistants shaking in the corner and an empty bed—restraints undone and sheets a tangled mess.

You ran a hand through your bedraggled hair. The mangled image of dozens upon dozens of torn stitches flashed through your mind. Bandages torn free before their time. New skin abused and ruined before it even had the chance to learn how to properly bruise.

_Well. This was going well._

.

.

.

Shockingly enough, Kylo Ren returned to the infirmary not much later—and of his own accord no less. The part of his face not concealed in bandages was contorted in rage and pain. Not a good combination on anyone, let alone someone who could twist your mind in on itself or run you through with a lightsaber.

He stormed up to you and wasted no time getting right in your face.

Part of you was screaming in horror. The other, less sane and very exhausted part, was still mulling over the fact that he didn’t have the brilliant pink hair you’d been imagining for so long.

“The Supreme Leader said that you believe my wounds are still dangerous.”

Well. How kind of him.

You shrugged. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. Especially if you want to maintain the use of your leg. Also,” you cast a pointed glare at his side, “that new abdomen of yours is _new_. As the title implies. And you’re going to murder it before it even has a chance to cozy up to all your other cells.”

His lips pulled apart in a snarl but you held your ground.

 _I am supposed to be a rock,_ you reminded yourself. _A rock. A big, sturdy, rock. And he doesn’t have his lightsaber right now to cut open that rock. **Be the rock**. _

“It will set back my training.”

“Do you want to train _and die_ or take a bit of a break and _not die_.” Teensy bit of an exaggeration, sure. But hyperbole was your specialty.

His dark eyes narrowed further. “The Supreme Leader told me that you are to be my personal medic. To ensure that this,” he winced, “does not happen in the future.”

_I can’t exactly stop your bitch ass from getting stabbed._

His face darkened and your brain supplied helpfully that you ought to be more careful, because **_remember self,_** _he can probe your thoughts._  

You smiled stiffly and took a cautionary step backwards.

“Well, sir. You weren’t supposed to wake up for—” you glanced at the clock on the wall, “—two days. However, if you get back into bed, I can give you your next dose of painkillers and antibiotics a bit early.”

There was that snarl again.

You tried again. “You need to rest. Resting will make it better. I promise. The best medicine other than the actual medicine.”

Like an angry cat who’d been yelled at to get off the counter, he slowly and grumpily slunk away. He settled himself less than gracefully onto the firm mattress with a hard wince ( _ha._ You _knew_ he was in pain _. The faker_ ) and you were so very tempted to tuck him in like the spoiled little brat he was— _and there was that venomous glare again._

So instead you just hooked him back up to his fluids, flushed his IV, and injected a far too potent cocktail of Fentanyl and concentrated antihistamines into the slushing, clear fluid bags, hoping it would knock him out for at the very least a solid twelve hours.

You slumped into your chair with a sigh that seemed to shake all the way down to your _bones_.

You’d wanted to know more about him—to unravel why a man that ought to be so mysterious seemed to be anything but. You’d wanted to satiate your curiosity. You’d thought it would be so _easy_ if you ever just had the chance to observe the leather clad wonder in his natural habitat.

And _oh_ how you were regretting that.

.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it wasn’t exactly your fault that he could reach into your skull and scoop out thoughts like oatmeal.

 

Apparently you had greatly miscalculated just how much medicating Kylo Ren could tolerate before falling comatose.

The warrior turned human-vegetable was silent at least during your frenzy to restart his heart, but you supposed that was to be expected…   

Now the comforting _beep-beep-beep_ of the heart monitor was on the verge of lulling you to sleep, and you were about to let it. The Knight of Ren had been your patient for all of eighteen hours and you hadn’t gotten a lick of shuteye in all that time. And that wasn’t even including how long you’d _already_ been awake before Starkiller Base had gone and imploded.  

You sighed and sprawled yourself across your new chair. It wasn’t as comfortable as your _favorite_ chair back at the base had been, but you would have to make do.

And who were you to complain?

You’d gotten out of there alive. Surely the same could not be said for the majority of workers who had made their home on the super weapon.

And with that thought you began to panic. What about all ~~the people who tolerated you~~ your friends? What about your skittish assistant? God, why had you never bothered to learn his name? You couldn’t even check to see if he was alright! What were you supposed to say?! _I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a man of average height with curly brown hair and these really sad puppy dog eyes that make it impossible to scream at him even when he blows up your batch of eyeballs that had just finished marinating for an experiment only that very morning—Would you happen to know if he managed to **not be swallowed by a fissure**?_

That was it. You were alone. It was all over. You’d have to find a whole new batch of recruits to help you procure your favorite gossip. And the original mass of them had already been so hard to get a hold of the first time around! Let alone now that everyone was _dead!_

“S _hut up_.”

You almost flew out of your chair.

“You’re awake.”

Kylo Ren glared over at you, looking very much like an angry cat who had been dropped in a vat of water.

You righted yourself and scuttled quickly to his side. “How are you feeling, sir? I had to counteract some of the pain medication because it was having a negative effect on your SPO2 levels, but I—”

“ _Shut up_.”

Your tongue turned to lead in your mouth mid-word.

“I… sir?”

He reached up to rub at his temples, flinching only once when the movement tugged at the stab wound spanning his chest.

“I said, shut up. _Stop it_. Your panic is so _loud_ ,” he grit out, massaging his aching head.

At this you frowned. _Yes._ You were most certainly _alarmed_ , no use denying that.  But you had locked all that obnoxious fretting up inside your head. You were good at that—letting your thoughts run rampant while your external shell maintained its neat composure. But…

“I’m sorry, sir,” you began, hesitant. “I don’t know much about the Force—only as much as the next person—but… I thought, well, from what I’d _heard_ , when someone uses the Force, they can probe someone’s thoughts. But it’s not a constant stream. Can’t you just…” you made an awkward gesture with your hand, “ _turn it off,_ in a manner of speaking.”

“Can you turn your _fretting_ off?”

 “Well… no.” _But it wasn’t exactly **your** fault that he could reach into your skull and scoop out thoughts like oatmeal._

He made a face and you mentally reminded yourself to _think less._

Again, he dug his fingers into his temples. “You’re just… _loud_.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

You shuffled awkwardly back and forth on your feet for a moment or two as the Knight of Ren worked on glaring holes into the ceiling.

“I suppose…” You paused to clear your throat. “I should probably change your bandages while you’re up, sir. And check on the new muscle cells to see if they’re forming properly.”

He nodded his assent and you went to work.

The stab wounds that had pierced his calf and chest were closing nicely. During the original surgery, you’d stitched them up neatly and efficiently after clearing away the cauterized skin and flushing the wounds. And to your extreme satisfaction and surprise, despite Ren’s little fieldtrip earlier on, _those_ were all still intact. All they ended up needing was a bit of salve and a fresh layer of bandaging.

The wound on his side was a bit more tricky. From the type of damage alone, you assumed he’d been shot. And by something incredibly powerful at that. You’d done your best and it showed. The fresh patch of skin and muscle blended seamlessly into the rest of him. However, your handiwork had been damaged a bit during his excursion. And the area _around_ the wound was still tender and bruised. Like he’d been _hitting_ it at some point. Which was _ridiculous._ You removed the bandages and spread anti-inflammatory cream across the new skin. You bound it tight, with maybe one too many layers of sterile gauze, and he winced when you pulled the wrapping into place. Part of you naturally wanted to apologize for hurting your patient; the other part demanded you stay silent. _He_ had been the one to endanger all your hard work after all.

When you reached for the bandage on his face, he grabbed your wrist and held tight—a warning.

“Leave it,” he growled, settling back against the flimsy med-ward pillows. “Let it scar. It will be a reminder.”

_Wow, the dick bag ginger was actually right. Hot damn._

At this he lifted his head, lips twisting into a befuddled frown for a moment or two before he decided that your musings _clearly_ weren’t worth his time. He shimmied around carefully on the bed to make himself more comfortable beneath the thin sheets and then turned his head to stare at the opposite wall. He made it clear that he was ignoring you, and that you were no longer needed _thank you very much_.

You bit back a huff.

“Sir. If you don’t at least allow me to change the bandages on your face, the wound could get infected and—”

“I don’t care. Let it happen then.”

“ _Sir_.”

“ _Enough_!”

For a moment you thought your throat would constrict, that your vision would be speckled with black and you’d collapse to the ground, blue and lifeless. Instead, he crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest and closed his eyes.

“You can leave now, _doctor_.”

You sighed and headed back to your not-favorite chair. The moment you’d contorted yourself into a comfortable position, your eyelids drooped and you were dead to the world.

.

.

.

As mentioned previously, you were good at what you did. And you were very proud of that little fact. Generally, your patients left not only in better shape than in which they’d arrived, but also better than perhaps _ever_. If you had asked anyone on the Starkiller base, they would have perhaps mumbled something about how, _yes, you were a decent enough doctor_. But you considered your true calling card to be the fact that you never left a mark on your patients. Scars, lacerations. _Nope_. You liked your work to remain invisible. It was a sign of your medical prowess.

Therefore, Kylo Ren’s refusal to let you treat the garish red slash across his face was driving you _insane_.

“I just don’t _understand_ ,” you moaned, slurping you tea. “Who would want a scar across their _face_ of all places?”

The poor gaggle of stormtroopers you’d infiltrated shifted uncomfortably.

“Some people find them intimidating,” one finally supplied helpfully.

“But he already wears a mask,” you pointed out.

“ _Were you not listening when I told you_?” another voice piped in. “He idolizes Darth Vader. To the point that’s far since passed obsession. I’m surprised he’s not asking for you to just go all in and remove his limbs at this point.”

_And lo, the fuckboy hath returned._

You bowed your head respectfully. “General Hux.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Doctor.”

You hesitated when he didn’t continue. “Is there something that you need, sir?”

A quick glance around told you that your stormtrooper compadres had up and fled. You could hardly blame them, but that didn’t help alleviate your discomfort.

He crossed his arms stiffly behind his back just as he always seemed to do and leaned forward with a greasy smile. “Supreme Leader Snoke asked me to check up on your progress. How is our dearest Kylo Ren?”

“Alive, sir,” you supplied, stiff. “And on the mend. Other than the wound on his face, he’s been incredibly cooperative with his treatments.”

Hux tilted his head. “Oh? Such a shame. You mentioned a scar. Were you not able to fix his face all in one go then?”

You bit back a snarl. “I’m unfamiliar with lightsaber wounds, sir. And they’re difficult to manage as it is, even for those skilled in treating them.”

He arched a brow. “Ren takes his anger out on many unfortunate stormtroopers, doctor. I’m surprised you’re not more accustomed to tending to these kinds of…accidents.”

Taking a lightsaber to the face was no _accident_ , but you kept that to yourself. Instead, you forced a friendly smile.

“Not to come across as overly blunt, sir, but when Kylo Ren decides to ‘take out his anger’ on someone with his lightsaber, well, there generally isn’t much left of his victim to fix.”

Hux flushed pink, angry, and you dipped your head in a polite nod.

“As always, it was lovely to see you, sir.”

.

.

.

— _Stupid, arrogant, no good, soulless, nosy—_

“Enough.”

_—thinks I can’t do my job? Well, I’ll show him. I could rupture every organ in his body while **naming** them—_

“ _Enough_.”

_—lousy, egg sucking, Wookie faced, rathtar fucker, from the depths of—_

“SILENCE.”

Your internal rant fumbled and crashed to a screeching halt and you looked up in shock to see Kylo Ren sitting straight up in bed, fists pressed to his temples and eyes scrunched shut in annoyance.  

“Is something the matter, sir?”

You’d been sitting quietly at your desk, mentally _murdering_ General Hux. But the leader of the Knights of Ren had been _asleep_. Surely your ‘loud’ thoughts wouldn’t follow him into the world of unconsciousness. Or so you’d assured yourself…

“You need,” he spat out through clenched teeth, “to learn to _control_ yourself.”

You frowned. “They’re my thoughts, sir. There’s little I can do to—”

“Well _figure it out_ then!”

“…I’ll try, sir.” **_You’re_** _the one who’s reading them, you asshat— **you** learn to control your damn probing!_

He winced and his glare, though already promising all sorts of terrible retribution, seemed to darken even _more_. It didn’t seem possible that one person should be able to exude _that much menace_.

“I’m… sorry, sir. It just…” you awkwardly tapped a knuckle against your forehead.

_What had Snoke been **thinking.** You were going to wind up dead by the week’s end._

At this, a smirk twitched the corners of his lips and you briefly entertained the notion of swallowing your tongue so that you could at least bow out with all your fingers and toes still attached.  

Instead, you pulled yourself up out of your chair and made your way over to shoot another round of drugs through his veins.

Within two hours you were in a frenzy trying to force his heart to beat and his lungs to contract.

You succeeded, of course. You were no amateur.

But unlike the first time which you’d almost murdered Kylo Ren with an overdose of nighty-night drugs, you didn’t bring him _entirely_ out of his stupor. Even when you had to rush to his side not five hours later to once again drag him away from the brink of cardiac arrest and imminent death, you let him sleep.

Because it was far easier to deal with a dying man and a spastic heart than a giant toddler with a bucket on his head, who was currently short one bucket and therefore taking his anger out on the rest of the world ( ~~AKA _you_~~ ).

You’d have to bring him to at some point or other, but for now, you let the drugs do their work.

.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You rubbed your palms into your eyes. 
> 
> You should have kept him in a coma.

You were sneaky.

Not as sneaky as a spy perhaps, or one of those suicidal Resistance folks who you occasionally found scattered throughout the First Order’s ships in a multitude of parts, but sneaky nonetheless. Sure, those people may have been able to out sneak you, but just because you weren’t the sneak ** _iest_** didn’t mean that you couldn’t be quite devious when the times demanded it.

And this was one of those times.

In fact, this trumped the _rest_ of all those times _combined_.

Because Kylo Ren could read your thoughts louder than a bellowing Tatooine Howler, and your thoughts had no sense of decency when it came to sparing your life.

It wasn’t _your_ fault he’d almost died ~~six~~ three times while under your care. Sure, you may have left him to his own devices for a few of those near heart attacks, but the first one had been _entirely_ an accident.

But your brush with manslaughter wasn’t what was truly bothering you. _No_. What was currently causing you to sweat through your best pair of scrubs and thoroughly wear down the soles of your boots with hours of pacing, was the fact that you had secretly tended to the wound on his face.

You just— _I mean_ —you couldn’t **_help_** it.

He had been _unconscious_.

No whining, no tantrums, no picking through your skull, **_nada_.**

And his face was just _there_ —all sad and red and angry. How could you _not_ have a go at that nasty laceration?

You tried not to leave any proof. Extra gauze was a no-no and stitches would be the equivalent of an open confession. But you did what you could—coating the vicious laceration with creams to help with pain and scarring, applying antibiotics so that he wouldn’t wind up with an infection that would most certainly finish what your drugs had started. You even managed to change out the bandages and replace them _exactly_. Same give in the fabric, same pressure over the wound. It had been difficult, but like any good criminal, you’d managed to pull off your crime without nary a witness nor dust speck worth of evidence.

Which was great.

Except that was all in terms of the _physical_.

And Kylo Ren would be tearing through your mind the moment he awoke, whether he wanted to or not. ( ~~stupid loud thoughts trying to get you decapitated~~ )

You spent the hour or so while the drugs wore off working on constructing a mental wall—imagining bricks and stones slowly piling up around your thoughts. That’s what Jedi did, right? They could keep people out. You’d heard about that girl, the one who had driven Ren into a fit when she’d pushed him out of her thoughts and escaped. Maybe you could do that too…

Except you _weren’t_ force sensitive ( ~~trust me, you’d checked. Who didn’t want to perform mental magic tricks and levitate bowls of fruit around the room? You certainly did.~~ ).

So who _knew_ if that would actually work.

So instead you tried whispering—calming your thoughts, quieting your mental outbursts.  Like mental yoga—no _meditation_. Yes. That. You would make it work. .

But then you were rolling around in your chair and smashed into your desk with a thud, crushing your ankle between cheap rubber wheels and sharp metal. You bit your lip and shrugged it off outwardly, but _inside_ you head you were _screaming_ and _swearing_ and burning that traitorous desk _to the ground_.

The Knight of Ren tossed in his bed, forehead crinkling in annoyance, and you froze.

Forcing yourself to think peaceful and happy thoughts was _not_ going to work. A lifetime of conditioning your face to smooth over while your mind howled like a wild beast wasn’t going to be overridden in an hour.

What could you do? He was going to _kill_ you. And not like when you’d whine about how ‘oh, I didn’t finish that paper on the effects of such and such, bla bla bla is going to kill me.’ _No._ Kylo Ren was _actually going to kill you._

By the time he’d started to come to, your panic was a tangible thing with teeth sharp as knives tearing into your hide.

 _what do I do what do I do what do I do what do I **do**_ —

He had barely opened those dark eyes of his when your brain _exploded_ into song.

Ren’s face screwed up in distaste but you kept going. A song that wasn’t even a _song—_ just manic and slightly musical ramblings about the floor, a sandwich you’d eaten earlier that morning, the state of your hair—

“ _What exactly do you think you’re_ —”

He hadn’t even managed to get the entire sentence off his tongue before you propelled yourself from the chair and out of the room.

.

.

.

Hux called your name once, twice, three times and you finally twisted yourself around so that you were visible in your place tucked among the rafters.

“Yes, sir?”

He looked amused. Annoyed, yes. Also quite pissed off. But amused.

“What are you doing up there, doctor?”

He knew. The stormtroopers passing by knew. _Everyone_ knew. You hadn’t exactly outright _proclaimed_ why you were holed up in the ceiling, but every person on that ship understood. Because what other reason did you have to hide yourself away than _Kylo Ren_.

“Nothing of consequence, sir.”

“In that case you won’t mind the interruption,” he smiled, very much like a shark. “Your patient needs you.”

_I’m dead._

“Well, I’m on my break, sir.”

He arched a brow. “Apparently it’s quite urgent.”

_I’m dead, and fuckboy **wants** me dead._

 “Not to sound rude, sir, or make assumptions, but Lord Ren doesn’t seem the type to **_need_ ** anyone for _anything._ ”

If _Hux_ had been the type, perhaps he would have giggled at his comrade’s expense. Instead, that shit eating grin simply took on a twinge of humor. The rest of his stupid face stayed the same.

“Well, he certainly needs _you_.”

At this point you were positive that Kylo Ren was going to cut off each of your extremities one by one—starting with the pinky toes on your left foot and casually working his way in at his own leisure. Your cries of pain would be like sweet music to his stupid bucket covered ears, blocking out your never-ending litany of internal blasphemy.

“Did he say for what, sir?”

“Supreme Leader Snoke asked that you watch over him,” he replied instead, “that you were to be his own personal _nanny_.”

“Medic,” you corrected.

He waved you off. “Nurse, nanny, same difference… It seems you’re doing a pretty poor job of that so far, wouldn’t you agree? Poor Kylo Ren, waking all alone and disorientated in his dreary hospital bed—injured, dying, who knows?”

You grit your teeth. You were avoiding him, sure, but you were far from an _incompetent doctor._

“Is there a point to this, sir?”

“I’m sure the Supreme Leader would be glad to talk to you about the _point_.”

At that you swallowed, dry and itchy. “I… understand, sir.”

He smirked. _Clearly_ the evil ginger was enjoying the idea of Kylo Ren being forced under the watchful eye of his very own sith-sitter. As you shimmied your way down from the rafters, you contemplated just how many different ways you could kick him in the face before he managed to call for back up.

.

.

.

“Your mind is quiet.”

You glanced up from your place at his side, halfway finished with changing out his bandages.

“Sir?”

“You’re usually very loud.”

_I am aware._

His frown deepened in annoyance but you answered, unperturbed. _Maybe if you ignored it he would too. ~~yeah right, who were you kidding~~_

“Well, sir,” you said, soft, polite, “it seemed to bother you, so I’ve tried to…” your shoulder lifted in an awkward half-shrug, “ _subdue_ my thinking.”

He scoffed.

“Besides,” you continued, adding the final fresh layer of gauze, “I’m focused now. I’m working. I can think about this instead of—”

“—murdering General Hux.”

The fact that he’d filled in the blank with fuckboy’s name rather than his own was like taking a sharp pin to your balloon of anxiety. Your breath rushed out of you all in one go and you felt pleasantly buzzed. _Relieved_ , would probably be the proper term. Or maybe _light headed_.

“Precisely, sir.”

“How do you do it?”

You added the soft cotton bandages over your concoction of creams and gauze. He winced when you tugged the binding into place.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Of course you do,” he growled. “You _have_ to. Anyone, no matter how _weak_ , can feel when they’re pushing back, when they’re tugging at the Force.”

“I’m not force-sensitive, sir. I can’t feel it, and I certainly can’t use it.” _As much as you would have liked to._

You stood and began to clean up your supplies, carefully and quietly listing them all as you went to keep your thoughts full of peaceful nonsense.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Pardon?”

He grit his teeth and the bandage across his face shifted. Bandage. Face. _You wondered how it was doing since you’d—_

You began to mentally recite your old medical oath.

“Projecting thoughts is something that only the Force sensitive can do. And only with practice. Or natural strength…” he pondered. He seemed almost _less_ angry when he was doing that—the thinking thing. _Almost less angry_ was a good look on him. “None of which you have.”

_Well gee willikers, cowboy, **thanks for the vote of confidence**.    _

“It’s not exactly intentional, either,” you added quickly, noticing how that _almost less angry_ was quickly morphing back into regular old anger. “And I’m not exactly controlling _your_ thoughts either, sir. Besides, no one else seems to have an issue with it. I have a very distinct feeling that General Hux would have had me assassinated by now if he could manage to hear what I was thinking…”

Again his brow furrowed low in thought. He stayed that way for a moment or two before his head shot up and you swore that _this was the end_. _He’d figured it out. You were dead as dead could be_ —

Instead he ripped the IV needle from his arm with nary a flinch and threw the covers off in a grand show of dramatics—ready to make his daring escape. You hadn’t even managed a single step forward before his arm shot into the air and **_boom_**. _Force prison_. Or. Something like that. Pressure on all sides of your body, unmalleable and unbreakable. Couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe—_

The pressure relaxed enough for you to collapse to the floor with an incredibly attractive wheeze and an even more flattering _whoosh_ as what little air was left in your starved lungs flew past your lips. You looked up between huffing and hacking to see Kylo Ren standing before you, knuckles pressed roughly into his temples and eyes closed so tight they may as well have been sewn together.

“Stop, stop, _stop_. I’m not going to kill you. So _stop_. _Please_.”

It was the p-word that did it. Hearing the head of the Knights of Ren actually using _manners_ shocked you out of your **_I’m-going-to-die-right-here-and-now_** funk just enough that you could at least _breathe_ properly again.  

“ _Stop it_. You need to _relax.”_

It took you a good twenty-two seconds of staring open mouthed and gasping to realize what on Earth he was talking about.

So you counted off another twenty-two seconds, taking slow and even breaths and tempering your howling mind. It had all blurred. _An interesting experience_ you may have called it if observing the reaction in someone else. But this was _you_. And you had _no_ idea what to call it. _Adrenaline? The reel of your life flashing before your eyes?_ Whatever it was, there had been no thought. Not definitively at least. It was one continuous loop of chaos. And it seemed like a perfectly normal reaction for someone in your position, thank you very much. You’d thought you were about to _die_. Naturally your brain would _freak the fuck out,_ to the point that you were so freaked the fuck out that you couldn’t even **_register_** that you were _freaking the fuck out_.

But dearest Kylo Ren had _clearly_ just experienced **_all_ ** that was going through your mind. And, oh, you were sure that was _pleasant._

_The poor baby._

Well, no.

 ** _He’d_** been the one trying to Force-choke you into oblivion.

_So fuck him._

You wiped a line of drool from your chin and looked up to ~~demand an apology? Fight him? Cry? All of the above?~~ _address_ the situation and—

He was gone.

_Of course he was._

You flopped onto your back with a wheeze and just _lay there,_ hygienic state of the floor be damned.

When Phasma walked into your infirmary two hours later for a mandatory checkup for her concussion, you were still sprawled out unattractively over the metal paneling. She arched a brow at you (or you assumed as much—it was difficult to tell, what with the silver mask covering the entirety of her head), turned, and headed right back out.  

You rubbed your palms into your eyes.

_You should have kept him in a coma._

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why skin?”
> 
> You blinked, slow. “Pardon?”

The Starkiller base had essentially been a very dangerous hunk of ice that puttered around the Unknown Regions like it owned the place. Which… it sort of had, to be fair. Ugly, cold, or whatnot, it had been your home for many a year. And you were more than a little curious as to where the First Order would decide to settle itself now that their superweapon planet had gone and died.

~~when were they going to learn to _stop incorporating fail safe ‘weak spots’ into the designs of their weapons_? These freaking people… ~~

Kylo Ren was supposed to be on his way to Snoke to finish his training, so naturally you assumed that’s where you were all headed. _…wherever that was._

Speaking of the emo toddler…

You had seen neither hide nor hair of the dark menace since his little freak out in the med ward and your subsequent brush with mortality. And that was three days ago.

At this point, his bandages must have been disgusting. And he certainly needed someone to check the skin and muscle still working at reforming his side.

On the other hand, he had almost crushed your windpipe.

But on the _other_ other hand, you had no desire to incur the wrath of Snoke for neglecting your charge.

Kylo Ren was not mysterious, as much as he may have liked to delude himself into believing he was. He was predictable—meaning that you could trust him to lose his shit and tear a room apart when he didn’t get his way. Snoke on the other hand was a _real_ mystery. And who _knew_ how the Supreme Leader of the First Order would react when you disobeyed him.

And you were _certainly_ not one to tempt fate. _Give you blind rage over hidden intent any day._

So Kylo Ren it was.

Joy.

.

.

.

It took three desk assistants, four stormtroopers, and finally a very smug General Hux to find Kylo Ren’s quarters.

Then, of course, just after you’d rapped your knuckles against the thick, black, metal door, you chickened out and scurried back to your safe place, tucked away in the infirmary. _Heart of a lion_.

Later that day you were prodding at Phasma’s skull, ready to sign off on the ‘all clear’ to return to her duties. The gigantic woman had paused mid-question about how this would affect her accuracy over the next few weeks and instead asked very curtly if you were feeling well. _Of course you were. Why wouldn’t you be feeling well? There was nothing wrong. Did something **look** wrong? Because it shouldn’t._ She clearly didn’t believe it, but you rubber stamped her A-OK and she left without another word.

The next day proceeded in very much the same fashion. Standard checkups, one broken wrist, and a lot of avoidance.

Just when you were on the verge of forgetting all about Mister Tall, Dark, and Homicidal and calling it a night, a stormtrooper appeared at your door with the simple order ‘ _Kylo Ren requires your presence_.’

_Of course he did._

**_Mother trucker_ ** _._

This time when you knocked, the door slid open easily and you had to force yourself to _be a big girl_ _you loser_ , take a deep breath, and step through the threshold. You clung to your pack, brimming with all kinds of medical supplies to fix whatever he tossed your way. Cautiously, you began to tiptoe your way into the room—

Your throat constricted tight and you tried your hardest not to flat out _choke_ on your own accumulating saliva.

_Don’t laugh. Don’t fucking **laugh.** _

“S-Sir?”

Kylo Ren looked up with a snarl befitting a monstrous wild cat, or perhaps something far more intimidating.

You’d thought his aging bandages would be uncomfortable at this point, particularly with all the salve and shit you’d loaded them with. Pretty nasty to leave on for more than a few hours at a time. Thirteen or fourteen at most. You also knew he was stubborn. You just… hadn’t assumed he’d be so stubborn that he’d try to change them _himself_. And with… with _bed sheets._ An astonishing and ridiculously _stupid_ feat to be certain, what with the fact that he’d been laid flat out on his back not a week prior by some random girl from Jakku—

“She didn’t _beat_ me,” he snarled, startling you from your internal musings.

 _He had been **dead** on your table **.** Blown full of so many holes that_ —

“Of course not, sir.”

His lips twisted upwards, baring his canines threateningly, before he slumped back into his chair. “I’d been _shot_. And I was quite literally _holding myself together_ when we fought. It was only natural that I’d—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, sir,” you cut in politely before your thoughts could chime in on their own. “If you were capable of winning every battle there was than there’d be no need for anything else. Everything would be over too quickly and it would be pretty boring.”

He shifted uncomfortably as you began pulling away the impromptu bandages—black bed sheets torn from their home and rapped far too tightly over oozing wounds.  Forever ruined. Whoever was in charge of his laundry was going to lose their minds. You frowned. He’d certainly done a number on himself. _Again_. Why couldn’t he just be a _good_ patient and _not fuck up your damn stitches._

“Boring?” he repeated, distracted, as you non-too-gently began scraping away at four days’ worth of goo.

“Everything’s always _pew pew, crash, swish, pow_ , **_boom._** And that’s how I tend to like it. If all battles were so easily won, well—” you plucked a bottle of ointment from your satchel, “—that wouldn’t make for a very good story, would it?”

He winced when you began kneading cold cream into his side.

“You like chaos then?”

You had a feeling that he’d meant for that to come out with much more snark.  Instead he just sounded curious.

“I _am_ with the First Order for a reason, sir.”

At this he almost _growled_ at you. “The duty of the First Order is to _eradicate_ disorder. To _create_ order so that civilization can return to the fundamental stability that is required to promote _progress_.”

You arched a brow pointedly.

After a solid minute of nothing but intense staring, he still wasn’t backing down.

You turned with an exasperated sigh and resumed the tedious process of fixing him up. “If you say so, sir.”

But he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Are you saying that you weren’t _briefed_ on this? That you were allowed into the high ranks of the Order and handed the Supreme Leader’s trust without even knowing your _mission_?”

 ** _High ranks_** and **_trust_** all seemed like gargantuan exaggerations.

“I wasn’t briefed about much, sir. Let alone the main mission. I think they must have just assumed that I knew.” _Or cared._ “Even then, I’m just a doctor.” You added the final touch to his bandages and stepped away. “Better I know less.”

“You’re an army doctor.”

“I haven’t been a soldier in years, let alone seen the field—not since I joined the First Order. If something happened to go wrong, if I was captured at some point or other during a raid or something like that… ” At this you shrugged halfheartedly, pulling your bag over your shoulder. “Well, I doubt I’d be able to hold up under torture for very long. Better I don’t have anything to pass along.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that, but he hadn’t dismissed you immediately either. You shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“Why skin?”

You blinked, slow. “Pardon?”

“Why stitches and new cells?” he hummed, tilting his head. “Most _doctors_ are more accustomed to robotics than cell growth. It’s simpler, more efficient. And _faster_.” Now _that_ sounded like both an insult _and_ an accusation.

You twitched, annoyed. _Ungrateful little—_

“Simpler, yes. Faster, yes. But efficient, _no_.”

“Of course it’s more efficient.”

“What happens when the tech short-circuits? What happens when it’s unavailable? An emergency?” you argued, angry. You’d fought your teachers on this for years. You’d lost close colleagues, friends, to this very argument. _Relax. Don’t get pissed. It’s not worth getting—_ “You’re so obsessed with Darth Vader, but you don’t seem to understand that if the damage to his body had been _fixed_ rather than just covered over—if his lungs had been _regrown_ properly rather than hooked up to a stupid machine, he would have _lived_! But no, robotics is just _so **fantastic**_ **!** And let me tell you, if I had my way—”

Your mouth snapped shut in a way that could _not_ have been natural. It made your jaw ache, but a quick probing with your tongue assured you that your teeth were all intact and that the ringing in your head was more out of blunt force and not due to shattering bones. When after a few solid moments you found yourself still standing strong and _not_ convulsing on the ground with blue cheeks, you deemed it safe enough to glance up at the black swathed toddler from beneath your lashes.

“Your thoughts are no quieter outside your head than in.”

For some reason he almost sounded… amused.

You met his dark eyes and noticed with a start that the bandages over his face had been completely removed. And some time ago, judging by the state of the skin there. The scabs looked rough and bloody—picked at. Like he was intentionally making it _worse_.

“You honestly didn’t notice?”

Another start. You needed to stop forgetting that you projected your musings with all the subtly of a flood light wielding a megaphone.

“I was a bit focused on the rest of you, sir.”

He waved a hand over his face. “What do you think?”

_Of the **scar?**_

He snorted. “Of course.”

 _Well._ If he was going to read your thoughts anyways, there was really no need for subtly. “Seems pointless when you’re just going to go and cover it with a mask.”

“It’s not the appearance so much as the _purpose_.”

“Wreaking havoc on all the muscles in your face? Not to mention putting yourself in the line of fire for a literal _army_ of infections and—”

Again your mouth was forced shut.

But, _ah_ , he couldn’t silence your thoughts.

He grit his teeth and his lips pulled into a grin that was more snarl than anything else. “I could always choke you into unconsciousness, if you so prefer.”

_No you did not **prefer**. _

“In any case, doctor, your services are no longer required. You can see yourself out.”

And with that you were booted non-too-gently into the hallway by an invisible foot, ~~the Force, whatever~~. Either way, it was less than pleasant. The sliding door slammed shut with as much force as any sliding door is able to ‘slam’ and you found yourself sitting dazed and bewildered on the metal floor.

A pair of stormtroopers paused in their trek down the hallway and you waved blearily in their direction. They turned tail and disappeared around the corner.

.

.

.

You shouldn’t have been surprised. _Why_ were you surprised?

Another hunk of ice.

But this time an even more _dangerous_ hunk of ice.

Ilum. That was its name. Two moons, sixty-six hour long days, orbital years that took up 1,078 of those days, and a never ending wasteland of ice and snow. Even the Starkiller base had had _forests, trees, even some **grass**_.  Not Ilum. Ilum was nothing but bitter cold mountain ranges and ice flows that may have taken your breath away at a first glance, but were already making your bones ache with chill just from _looking_ at them.

You had landed barely two hours ago and you were already sick of it.

What apparently made Ilum such a hot spot ( ~~hardy har har~~ ) to settle down was its sole temple—a long since abandoned Jedi shrine brimming with rare crystals and housing none other than the infamous Supreme Leader Snoke himself.

You were in the process of moving your few saved possessions from the bowels of the ship to the area of the caves that would be your new infirmary when you saw Ren.

He was puttering about like a duck in water—new ( ~~but practically identical~~ ) mask covering his face and, if you hadn’t known better, you’d have said he was _skipping_. But of course not. He just wasn’t prowling about with as much dark intent as usual. _His_ version of skipping perhaps…

You had heard a few people murmuring about how Darth Vader had created his first light saber in this temple when he was still under the wing of Obi-Wan Kenobi—the crystal within the powerful weapon harvested from these very walls.

And that was probably what had your dearest bucket-headed goth in such high spirits.

Well, good for him.

You on the other hand were still miserable and cold and shaking in your four layers.

.

.

.

The moment you stepped into your new infirmary you could have wept.

 _It was warm_.

That was all you could think. _Warm. Cozy. Hot. **Warm.**_

Like sliding into a mug of hot chocolate or curling up under a mound of freshly laundered blankets. And your quarters would be attached to this wing, for ease of access. Which meant that _you_ would be warm. _Oh sweet baby sith in a sweater—_

Someone was calling your name.

You turned, annoyed but too content with the temperature to bother with petty things like ‘anger.’ A stormtrooper stood by the door. Your eyes caught on the white pauldron hitched to its armor and you arched a brow. _A sergeant?_ For little ol’ you? You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or threatened.  

“I’m to show you to your quarters, ma’am. On orders from General Hux.”

“That was kind of him, thank you, but I can find them on my own from here.” You gestured to the handful of rooms branching off of the infirmary. It couldn’t be _that_ hard to figure out which one was yours—

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not sure if you were misinformed, but your quarters are on the other side of the base.”

**_what_ ** _._

“What do you mean _on the other side_?”

The stormtrooper shifted from foot to foot, looking very uncomfortable. “You’re in the South Wing, ma’am. With the other commanding officers. A surgical tech is going to be assigned to your shifts for now and—”

“ ** _What_**.”

Clearly the poor sergeant had not been expecting that reaction. “I—My apologies, ma’am. I was told that you knew—”

The apology fell on deaf ears. They were taking you out of the med ward. You were _being removed from the infirmary. You were being taken away, **replaced.** And put with—with—_

_Hux’s stupid smug face flashed behind your eyes._

You stormed forward and the poor messenger scuttled backwards until you had him cornered against the wall.

“Where is Hux?”

“Ma’am, the rest of the ships are still arriving, the base is in great need of repair and order in this time and—”

“ _Where_ is he?”

The gulp was audible.

“H-He’s in a meeting with L-Lord Ren and the S-Supreme Leader. In the crystal caves. Please, ma’am. I don’t—”

You were out the door and down the frigid hallway before the poor stormtrooper had even managed to sag to the ground in relief.

.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best thing about gossip of course, was learning new things about yourself.

You were not usually an openly aggressive person. You preferred to keep your murderous fantasies tucked away in your head rather than splayed out and acted upon for the entire galaxy to gawk at.  

But the moment you saw that snide git strutting into the hallway with a clearly frustrated Knight of Ren at his side, stupid ginger head held high and lips curled in that damned smirk, your vision bled to crimson.

 _It would be so easy._ He was no Kylo Ren—someone who could fight you off as easily as taking a breath. _No._ He was a snake who hid in the shadows pulling strings while everyone else put their necks on the line. Admirable in some aspects, yes. But now all that meant was that he wouldn’t know how to fight you off—

 ** _No._** _Stay rational,_ you reminded yourself. _He is your **superior**. And you can’t just go off on someone who could have you **executed**. Or fired at the very least._

So you slowed your steps, tried to reason with your racing heart.

Hux looked up then, taking note of your approach, and that smirk warped into something positively wicked.

“Ah. Hello, doctor. Is there something I can help you with?”

_Easy now._

You stopped short, leaving more space between the two of you than you normally would. “General Hux. I was just informed that I’m being moved out of the med ward. May I ask _why_?”

“Do you not remember?” he hummed, quirking a brow. “You are to be Lord Ren’s personal medic.” _Oh. You **remembered**_ **.** “There won’t be much time for working in the infirmary. Unless you’re planning on _neglecting_ him.”

_Knives driving into his skin, fists cracking his skull, Rathtars eating him bit by bit—_

You could feel Kylo’s glare on you, no less potent even when filtered through his mask.

“Of course not, sir.” **_No_**. _You weren’t going to back down on this._ Being a doctor, it was your _purpose_. It was what you _loved_. “But certainly you weren’t expecting him to need my assistance _all_ of the time, _sir_.” A pause. “How often exactly are you expecting he’s going to be _stabbed?_ ”

That shit eating grin fell into a sharp frown and your own lips twitched in triumph.

But then he seemed to shake himself, ready his forces, and _fire._

“Oh, I don’t know, doctor. He may not need stabbing, with you there to put him into a coma all on your own.” Ren’s death bucket swiveled your way and you swallowed. _Uh oh_. “Was that incompetence?” Hux asked. “Or is the mild mannered surgeon really so much more inhumane than we’d assumed…? Personally, I’m thinking it’s the former—”

_That’s it. You were going to kill this stupid fuckboy **dead** —_

But before you could surge forward like a fiery demon straight from the depths of the Void, Kylo Ren stepped between you.

“ _Enough_.”

You’d grown so accustomed to speaking with him without the damn helmet on that the curt, metallic, command almost made you shudder. _Almost_.  You’d forgotten how intimidating it made him, how it deepened his voice to something completely unfamiliar.

Hux arched a brow. “Well, how about that.”

Ren twitched, clearly trying to restrain his own irritation.

 _Just let me do it,_ your thoughts begged. _I’ll take the blame. You could pretend to pass out, or like I drugged you, or—_

“Stepping in to defend my honor, Ren?”

The dark terror stared down at the general, that stupid mask obscuring his face and any possible hope you had of reading his intentions.

“ ** _No_**. Saving hers.”

If your jaw hadn’t been hooked to your face with all kinds of intricate tendons and muscles, it would have dropped straight to the floor.

Kylo Ren turned back to you then with what you assumed was a stiff frown and narrowed eyes that screamed all kinds of silent reprimand. “You have a new and promising position in the First Order. Don’t ruin it on someone like him.”

“I…o-of course, sir.”

And with a little melodramatic swirl of his black ~~dress~~ cape, he was storming down the cavernous hall and out of sight.

.

.

.

 _Cold_.

The South Wing was _cold_.

You rubbed your hands up and down your frigid limbs. You would definitely need better clothing if you were going to be stuck _living_ in this ice box. Maybe you could steal one of Ren’s _dresses? Cloaks? Ceremonial skirts_? Whatever it was, it looked warm—

“These are your quarters, ma’am,” your escort mumbled, nervous.

You nodded your thanks, carefully polite. The stormtrooper sergeant you’d dealt with in the infirmary seemed to have gotten around to warn everyone that you were clearly _insane_. Sure, you could work with that image. And gladly. But it was better not to spook the poor screw heads _too_ badly.

You stepped into your new home with a _woosh_ of electronic doors and _ahh. At least you wouldn’t **freeze** when you were in **here**. _

You skirted the ~~room~~ _rooms_ curiously. Surely one person didn’t need this much space. And was that a fireplace? An honest to goodness _fireplace?_ You’d only heard about those in stories. Closer inspection proved that the flames were eating at some kind of soft stone rather than wood, but still. _A mother fucking **fireplace.** In your bedroom. _ And you hadn’t even had to murder or sleep with anyone to get it. Hot damn.

And your bedroom. Your _bed_. You’d had your own room at the Starkiller Base, yes. But your accommodations had been standard issue. To be perfectly honest, you could make yourself comfortable almost anywhere. Hell, you’d slept curled up in a corner once when you were little just because your friend had said you couldn’t. Long story short, your rooming situation on Starkiller Base had been more than adequate. But _this_ , oh **_this._**

You sprawled across the monstrous concoction of fluff known as a ‘bed’ with a content little sigh and a languid stretch.

You felt like _royalty_.

Was this what it was like? Being important? Well. They may have taken away your infirmary ~~lousy fucker with his stupid freaking jacket that he never wore right. Who the Hell didn’t use their _sleeves?!_~~ But, _oh_ —you gave another _long_ stretch until the tendons in your shoulders popped oh so beautifully— _you could get used to this._

.

.

.

Or you would have _liked_ to get used to your new abode.

Had the fuckboy not shown up at your door not fifteen minutes later and ruined it.

You dragged yourself off your cozy comforter when the General started banging his fist on the door. He only had to call your name four times before you found the willpower to greet him with words rather than, say, _acid_.

The door slid open and you stepped through, irked. He lowered his fist, slow, like he was shocked stiff that you’d even answered. You leaned up against the frame.

“Is there something you need, General?”

“I see you found your new quarters then.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You _did_ send someone along with me to make sure I wouldn’t get _lost_ , sir.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Is there something you _need_ , sir?”

Hux cleared his throat, the most awkward you’d ever seen him.

“It… well… it seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, doctor.” He held out his hand. “Truce? For now, at the very least.”

You stared at that hand for a long time but made no move to take it.

Slowly it fell back to his side.

You crossed your arms. “What’s this about?”

He’d never cared about stepping on toes before, particularly _your_ toes. He wasn’t _mean,_ per se, but you were far from _friends_. Let alone **_allies_.** He was too sassy for your taste, too needlessly haughty and bolstering an ego three sizes too large.

Again he cleared his throat. “I realize I’ve been… less than accommodating when it comes to your preferences. And I just wanted to apologize.”

You blinked. Slowly, you lifted a finger and planted it at the center of your chest. “To _me_.”

He looked like he was having a _very_ hard time not rolling his eyes into the next dimension. “Yes, _you,_ doctor.”

What the _fuck_ was going on.

You knew tag-teaming it with the one and only Kylo Ren could be considered a promotion, but _how far_ **_exactly_** had that promoted you? And if that was the case, surely he wouldn’t have intentionally pissed you off _less than half an hour ago._

“What happened?”

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Between now and our little _run in_ outside of Snoke’s chambers. _What happened_?”

Hux smiled. “The Supreme Leader and I… had a brief conversation, is all. About you. And afterwards I realized that I’d been entirely inappropriate earlier on and came to apologize.” He arched a brow. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Say I’m sorry? Or would you prefer I keep acting the way I had?”

 _No—Yes_. You didn’t know!

“That ‘ _conversation,_ ’” you pressed. “What was it about?”

His grin didn’t waver even a smidge. “Nothing of importance.”

“Oh _really_.”

There was that thousand watt beam again. “Really, really. Now…” Again he held out his palm. “Truce?”

“No.”

The door slid shut with a _smack_ , but not before you caught the angry red in his cheeks and the dark frustration pulling at his brow.

.

.

.

A brief fieldtrip to the new infirmary had proved that, lo, your curly haired, eyeball-experiment-ruining assistant was _alive_ —returned from the gaping void that had seemed to swallow him whole.

And better yet, he had brought some absolutely _delicious_ gossip back with him.

_Did you know—Did you know—Did you know…?_

That seemed to be all he could splutter out.

You had left the med ward, thoughts swimming with all kinds of useless nonsense.

_Did you hear that FN-2187 deserted? That he was fighting alongside the **rebels?** How **scandalous** —Or better yet, did you hear about Phasma and that one guard? Apparently she almost **decapitated** him when he—Oh! **Oh**! And those two Captains who you thought were eyeing each other? Well apparently they—_

You made yourself more comfortable on your crystal perch before going back to picking at your nails.

_Well, maybe it wasn’t **all** useless._

The best thing about gossip of course, was learning new things about _yourself._

Did you know that apparently you’d lost your left foot to one of Kylo Ren’s tantrums? Or that Snoke had stolen you away to use a bartering chip with some foreign planet? The word was that you were to be a bride to some wicked warlord with no sense of personal space or congeniality.  And apparently there was some strange love triangle going on with all that—a secret lover determined to win you away from your husband-to-be.

All very interesting.

It certainly gave you something to think about while Kylo Ren trained.

Because, yes. Apparently your presence was required for _that_ too.

Which was fucking ridiculous. What did they think was going to happen? That he’d slip in a puddle and eviscerate himself?

The crystal beside your head lurched forward with a _crack_ and you looked up to see the bucket shooting you a nasty glare.

You held up your hands in a mixed shrug of ‘ _I’m sorry’_ and ‘ _what can you do?’_

“ _Focus_.”

Kylo Ren swiveled, lightsaber in hand, and slashed into the wall again and again. “It’s not my fault!”

“You must learn to control yourself,” Snoke frowned, gnarled mouth twisting down in what you couldn’t tell was annoyance, anger, or just… his face? “You must learn not to fight the Force, but embrace its power.”

“I am _embracing_ it!” he argued. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me! I’m stronger than I’ve ever been and—”

“And you could still be stronger. Much stronger,” Snoke interrupted gently. “But to do that, you must _accept_ its pull.”

At this point, you’d just about clocked out again.

During the first two training sessions you had been at full attention—watching and listening raptly to everything the Supreme Leader had to offer. It was near the middle of the third session that you realized that not only did you have absolutely _no_ idea what was going on, but also that you didn’t even know _what you didn’t know._ So instead you folded your hands under your chin and let your mind wander.

And it was at that moment that Kylo Ren began to slip up.

Like a child looking for a playmate, your meandering thoughts seemed to call out eagerly to his own. _Look at me. Look what I’m thinking. Distraction, distraction, distraction._

The first time, you’d nearly wound up with a lightsaber through the head.

The Supreme Leader had taken it upon himself thereafter to discipline his wayward pupil—you can’t just go around hurling lightsabers at people you don’t like afterall. _Very bad manners_. It had been like watching a stern parent threaten to take away their teen’s favorite black eyeliner if he didn’t stop trying to murder everyone.

That, of course, led to you thinking about Kylo Ren decked out with guy-liner. Smudged probably, but intentionally so. Too heavy on the lower waterline. He’d take off his mask at the end of the day and look like a freaking _raccoon—_

“ENOUGH!”

You blinked, eyes trailing over that crackling blade for hardly a full second.

“Sorry, sir.”

The bare knuckled death-grip around the hilt of his weapon seemed to say ‘ _not yet you’re not_.’

The Supreme Leader called your name and you locked gazes with him in surprise. Not _once_ during the past five training sessions had he addressed you individually.

“Y-Yes, sir?”

“What were you thinking about, child?”

You frowned. _Could he not hear it? Bucket-head acted like you’d hooked your amygdala up to the base’s mainframe and cranked the volume to max. And you were hardly a **child** —_

He chucked, low and soft. Hardly there.

“When you prefer the solace of your own thoughts, the walls you build are high and impenetrable. And I’ve had quite a bit of time to construct those barricades. They have never failed me, even when faced with a mind as wild as yours.” He leaned forward, hands resting neatly in his cloaked lap. “So tell me, what were you thinking?”

A flash of Kylo with black rimmed eyes flared up in your head before you could smother it.

“…nothing of import, sir.”

He arched a hairless brow and turned back to Ren.

“If something so trivial can snare your focus so entirely, how do expect to fare on the battlefield against the Jedi?” Snoke asked. At this, the black Knight winced.  “Because Skywalker _will_ return to fight, and he will bring his girl with him.”

“I’ll be stronger this time,” he defended, almost like he was trying to convince himself of that too.

“In body, yes. You are physically strong, Kylo. No one can contend with that. But in the mind, you are _weak_.” At this, Snoke’s scarred face turned to you. “And you are strong.”

_Well, how about them ap— **What?**_

Snoke settled himself more comfortably atop his strange throne.

“You have much to learn, Kylo Ren. I suggest you not take your medic for granted. Now—” he lifted his hands and the makeshift rock targets reformed. “ _Again_.”

.

.

.

You knew it had to be coming, but that didn’t mean you managed to entirely smother your squeal when a gloved hand snagged your arm and dragged you down a deserted alcove.

“Look, sir—” you pleaded. “I have no idea what he was talking about, I swear—I’m not, I mean, I know I—”

You mouth snapped shut and that stupid bucket glared down at you until even your thoughts slowly trailed off into silence.

“The Supreme Leader is never wrong.”

Your brow furrowed. _Meaning?_

“ _Meaning_ ,” his grip tightened uncomfortably, “the control I have over my mind is… not as powerful as it ought to be.”

He stepped back, releasing your arm. You rubbed at the sore muscle tentatively.

“ _You_ —you’re not even Force sensitive. And you can invade my mind without even _thinking_ about it,” he snarled. “Therefore—”

_Welp. That was it. He was going to decapitate you. Goodbye world—_

“—I need you to teach me.”

**_Excuse_ ** _me?_

You could practically _hear_ his teeth grinding from behind the mask.

“I need a teacher. The Supreme Leader told me not to take your presence for granted, so I can only assume he gave you to me so that you could serve as something more important than a _nurse_.” **_Gave?_** _What were you—a bag of meat_? “So you will teach me,” he finished, indignant. “You’ll show me what needs to be done to… _strengthen_ my mind.”

 ** _Teach?_** _You had no **idea** what you were doing, let alone how to **pass it along**. _ A million and one more objections ran through your head, and you were sure he heard them all.

You sighed, low and tired.

_This would never work. Not in a million years. Better to say that and move on with your lives—_

“When do you want to start?”

“Immediately.”

Of course he did.

.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren scoffed, a rumbling metallic grind. “You look ridiculous.”
> 
> “Not everyone’s clothing comes with built in insolation.”

It was official. You were insane.

Congratulations.

Certified and everything. The whole shebang.

Perhaps they’d let you hang your doctorate up on the wall of your padded cell. Certainly it would improve the bland décor.

In all likelihood that fancy bit of paper had been lost to the implosion of Starkiller Base, but hey, it was nice to imagine all of your decorating options. And what did your musings matter? You were crazy. You could think anything you damn well pleased.  

 _What happened?_ someone may have asked—perhaps an old enemy-turned-accomplice kneeling at your side as you lay dying in the dirt, a grand sacrifice to make up for all of your misdeeds and blablabla. _What made you the way you are?_

And like the crotchety old woman in a fairy tale who lived alone in the forbidden dark forest bearing secrets so much older and so much more important than herself, you were obligated to share your story with all who inquired.

_Well children, it all started a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away—_

“Stay focused.”

You blinked and shifted uncomfortably on the ground.

_You can still hear me then, sir?_

“Of course I can!”

 _Well_ , forgive _you_ for having _faith_ in his abilities. Any minute now, his mind could pull through. Your own head would fall silent and everything would be as it should be and—

And, _oh_ , who were you _kidding_. You’d been at this for _months—_

“ _Five days_.”

 _—five **excruciating** days. _Five days of Kylo Ren all but _living_ inside your skull as he tried to find that internal control panel that would bring peace to both of your aching brains. Or at the very least a door with a good draft guard to slam on his way out. Each night now for the past week—

“ _Five. **Days**_.”

—you’d found yourself huddled up in one of the deserted crystal caves. Once there, you sat neatly on the frigid stone floor, wrapped yourself in six (count em’— _six_ ) blankets, and played your game of mental ping pong. You kicked thoughts around like small, circular, bombs and the black swathed diva did his best to keep them from exploding on his side of the court. As your bitching so implied, he wasn’t exactly doing _well_.

“I _will_ get it,” he grit out, teeth bared and dark hair a rumpled mess. “Maybe if _you_ managed to stay _focused_ —”

_I am **focused**._

“Prattling on and on about how you’re going to make a sandwich later is not _focus_.”

_What else am I supposed to think about!_

“ _Helping_ me.”

But you’d _tried_ that. The first few days of this exercise in frivolity had you staring into his dark, bucket-free eyes—brow furrowed and trying your hardest to help him navigate the ever-changing labyrinth of your subconscious. But _you_ weren’t even sure how to keep _yourself_ from getting lost in that hot mess, and quickly your attempts at helping him had turned into rambling nonsense and a broken cinematic reel of memories and ideas that you’d stored at the very recesses of your mind.

And this was where that whole _mentally unstable_ bit came back into play.

You see, you had a hard enough time keeping your own thoughts and emotions squared away into neat little boxes with colorful labels. But now, you had to account for _his_ PMSing as well. Would he cringe at that memory from med-school where you hid a half-decomposed hand under the pillow of a girl who’d been making fun of you? Or would it be your anecdotes about pickles that sent him over the edge?

Soon, you’d been thinking about _thinking about **thinking**_. And just thinking about that made your brain _explode_ in a frenzy of chaotic thought. Which wasn’t exactly _good_ for a certain someone currently residing in your cerebral cortex.  

You sighed and pulled the blankets more tightly around your shoulders to fight the chill.

You were so _tired_ …

“And you think I’m not?” he snapped, kneading his fingertips into his temples.

You stared him down—the biggest, _saddest_ , puppy dog eyes you could muster aimed squarely at his face.

“ _No._ We’re not done yet.”

 ** _Tomorrow._** _You’d be better when you were well rested. And so would he._

You saw those dark eyes narrow in defiance and you counted slow. _One. Two. Three. Four_ —

“ _Fine_.” A pause. “But tomorrow we stay an hour later.”

He could have asked you to show up in a salmon suit at this point and you would have done it if it meant you could just _leave_.

The ever intimidating dark terror pulled himself to his feet and reached for his doom bucket—

_Cue vicious glower number thirty-two._

“ _Two_ hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached for his _**helmet** _ and you hauled yourself up, careful not to trip over your bedding. The black mask slid over his face and your blankets were arranged neatly around your own.

Ren scoffed, a rumbling metallic grind. “You look ridiculous.”

“Not everyone’s clothing comes with built in insolation.” The temple halls were even colder at night and he had a fucking _face shield_ to keep his cheeks nice and toasty. You on the other hand were lucky if your flesh didn’t freeze and crack off in nasty blue chunks.

He rolled his eyes (or so you assumed— _helmet_ ) and was out the door with nary a _goodbye_ , nor a _sleep tight_ or anything else.

With a final little hop from foot to foot (best to increase circulation while you still could), you pulled the blankets tight and exited your crystal cave with the kind of dignified grace mastered only by the very royal or the very drunk. And so began the shivery trek back to your strange stone-fireplace, your shower, and more importantly, your _bed._  

.

.

.

Oatmeal was the blandest of all food groups.

 _Sure,_ it had potential. Some brown sugar and bits of fruit could do wonders for the otherwise lackluster heap of grey goo coagulating on your plate. But this was _military_ grade oatmeal. Which meant it was even _worse_ than normal oatmeal. Though an impressive feat, it wasn’t exactly one you were very enthusiastic about.

You were still eating it, sure. But you did so with an upturned nose and righteous indignation.  

“So what’s he like?” came the tentative question.

You looked up at your shaky replacement with an arched brow. She was one of those _new_ doctors. The ones that knew how to press buttons on machines, type a list of symptoms into a computer, and little else. The med-ward was going to collapse in on itself without you there to run it. Just wait and see.

“Kylo Ren, you mean?”

She nodded, looking nervous. Poor child. She was going to fuck up your legacy and bring the infirmary to its knees, but still. You had _some_ pity for the First Order newbie.

A stormtrooper sitting beside her piped in, “Yeah, ma’am. You’re his personal medic right? Have you seen what he looks like without his mask?”

“I heard he has a massive scar—all the way across his face,” another gestured, making a slash motion across the front of his white helmet. “From when he fought that Jakku girl.”

Oh _, right_. **_The scar._**

Huh.

 _Strange_. You’d almost forgotten about that. And to think, you’d thrown such a hissy fit—

“I heard he has no right eye,” another whispered conspiratorially.

“Well I heard that half of his _entire head_ had to be replaced. It’s all metal now.”

“No _way_. I thought it was just his leg.”

“His _leg_?”

“No, no. It’s definitely his left arm.”

At this point, your poor replacement looked just about ready to up and faint on the spot. It was time to put an end to this rubbish. You were in top command here, the highest ranking officer at your table ~~good heavens you would never get used to that~~ , and it was your job therefore to set these underlings on the correct path.

You chewed thoughtfully on your mush.

_But the road of sweet exaggeration or dull truth… now **that** was the question._

You leaned forward and each member of your little table followed suit, ready to ravenously consume the gossip that you would spoon feed them.

“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong,” you said, tsking at them gently. “If you’re _really_ curious about what’s been swapped out for prosthetics, you have to aim _lower_ —”

And then your oatmeal exploded in your face.

You blinked, dazed, as the grey goo slid down your cheeks, your forehead, dripped from your chin—

“Good morning, sir.”

“ _Doctor_.”

A particularly large clump of oats plopped from the tip of your nose with a wet _smack_. “Is there something you needed, sir?”

Kylo Ren didn’t just stand there, no. He _loomed_. Even with that dumb helmet, you could _feel_ his glare scorching your skin. The expression ‘if looks could kill’ came to mind and you pondered fleetingly that _in his case, yes, they probably could_. The bench beneath your rear was quite _literally_ shaking as all your stormtrooper pals sat quaking in their suits—prepared no doubt for imminent demise.  

Instead, silence.

Then—

“ _Three_ hours.”

“Of course, sir.”

And then he was gone.

You felt just a _teensy_ bit bad when your replacement really _did_ faint on the spot.

.

.

.

_Someone was calling your name._

“Ah! There you are, doctor. I’ve been looking all over for you—”

Hux paused.

You stared.

He stared.

“Yes, General?”

He reached forward slowly, almost tentatively, and plucked a stray hunk of dried grey goop from your hair. It hardly helped. You were still _coated_. It was like tar, adhering to your person with an enviable level of determination.

“I was on my way back to my quarters,” you supplied, gesturing pointedly to your gooey uniform and face.

“Of course…” He visibly _shook_ himself into focus. “Ah, yes. Supreme Leader Snoke asked that I pass along the message that Ren’s training has been cancelled for today.”

Oh?

Hux grinned, bewilderment already overrun by that usual brand of smug humor. “Apparently he believes that Ren deserves a day of rest to… _settle_ himself.”

_Oh._

 “I’d recommend avoiding the main Northern hallway for now,” he smiled. “Use the back entrance if you can until… well, we’ll figure that out as we go.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“Oh, and doctor!” he added hastily as you turned to make your retreat. “Did you _really_ tell a group of new recruits that he has a prosthetic d—”

You were off and barreling down the hallway before his cackling could even hope to catch up to you.

.

.

.

Tacking an extra three hours to your training session was a lot worse than you’d anticipated. The normal two hour hunk of time was hard enough to get through as it was. And on _top_ of all that, you had to deal with an incredibly grumpy Knight of Ren who apparently _really did not appreciate dick jokes._

Note to future self—

_Never try to be funny ever again._

To make it up to him ~~for not eviscerating you over breakfast~~ , you really did try this time around.

You forcibly kept your thoughts conversational rather than flooded with fanciful daydreams and horribly cringe-worthy memories. And you tried _really, really hard_ to let him do as he wished without your brain attempting to drag him off course.

By the end of the five hours you were exhausted beyond exhaustion. Ready to collapse. Maybe already halfway there.

And the worst part of all of this was that even though you’d given 110% of yourself, _nothing had happened._

No progress, no walls, no blips of silence, _nothing_. Your thoughts were still as loud and obnoxious as ever.

You sighed and rubbed your palms into your eyes. _So much for your stupid ‘strength’_ —

Your head drooped under added weight and for one terrifying moment you thought you’d been stricken blind. No, _not blind_. That darkness was _fabric_.

The heavy cloak slid off your head and into your lap with a soft _shhhhwp_ and you narrowed your tired eyes, confused. The Knight of Ren was shrugging on his own black cloak, dutifully ignoring you. You wrapped a fist around the fabric and held it up, brow arched in silent question.

“Is this for me?”

“Who else would it be for?” he snapped. You frowned. **_Jeesh_. ** He sighed and stepped forward. “Now you don’t have an excuse... _Stop walking around the base covered in blankets_.”

You nodded, hooking the cloak over your shoulders. It was surprisingly soft. And, _wow_. No _wonder_ he never looked cold. It was like all of your blankets _combined_.

You saluted him.

“No more blankets. Got it, sir.”

He nodded, terse.

_And no more dick jokes. I **swear.**_

He winced ~~clearly your promises were not appreciated~~ and stomped from the cave. You waved as he went, half delirious with exhaustion. Carefully, you curled the cloak more snugly around your shoulders and smiled...

Then, you remembered that you’d have to trek through the Northern Hallway to get back to your quarters.

…oh, well. At least you’d be warm.

.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was illogical to think that the entirety of the First Order had been placed on hold solely for the purpose of continuing Kylo’s training. But to be fair, it wasn’t like you were really caught up with their usual activities as it was, what with the fact that until two weeks ago you’d been sequestered away in the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy V-day y'all

You had a bit of experience with stalking. For example—Damion Quint. You’d met him in med school. He’d been a particularly _attractive_ male with unnaturally green eyes and a jaw line strong enough to overthrow the Resistance. You hadn’t _stalk_ stalked him per se. It was casual—winding up in the dining hall at the same time, rooming down the hall. Nothing serious. You just… _appreciated_ the fact that his genes had combined in such a way to make him so aesthetically pleasing.  

But anyways.

You understood the concept of stalking. You _partook_ in the hobby.

You’d just… never been on the opposite side of the coin.  

“ _Stop following me_.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The fuckboy was not very good at stalking. The point of the pursuit was to _stay hidden_. It was supposed to be _subtle_. Hux gave no shits. He stepped into your metaphorical footprints, trailing after you no matter how much you weaved throughout hallways, ducked into caves, or climbed into holes in the ceiling.

“What do you _want_.”

He cocked his head. “I don’t want anything from you, doctor. I’m a busy man. If I had something to ask of you, I would have done so.”

You flicked your new black cloak over your shoulder with a huff and went back to clawing your way into a cleft in the rock. Maybe if you climbed high enough, you could escape him. Or at the very least get him out of sight. He didn’t seem much like the type for _physical_ activity. Let alone something that would cut up his hands and tarnish his shiny boots.  

“ _What do you think you’re doing_?”

You glanced down.

“Good morning, sir.”

You had a strong feeling he’d be pulling his hair out by the roots if he could reach it beneath his bucket. Instead, Kylo Ren just glared up at you.

“Get _down_ from there.”

You shifted awkwardly, realizing for the first time that the pair of evildoers standing a solid twenty-five feet below you probably had a _fantastic_ view of your butt from this angle. Dramatic cape or otherwise. But, _ah. **Getting down**_. That… hadn’t been a part of your original plan. You probably should have accounted for that little loophole—

Then, of course, you felt the invisible and all powerful Force tugging at your feet and you proceeded to be physically _~~mentally? aphysically? **aphysically?** Was that even a thing~~_ ~~?~~ dragged along the stone wall. You landed with a _thump_ on the hard floor.

_Ouch._

_So he could pull you down with all the grace of a butterfly, but when it came to keeping your **tailbone** intact—_

“Shut up,” he snapped. “It’s your fault for climbing up there in the first place.”

_It was not. It was **fuckboy’s.**_

At that he seemed to remember the _other_ occupant of the room and turned on the ginger with one of those heavily implied scowls.

“What do you want?”

_That’s what **you’d** been asking for the past three hours. _

“Nothing,” Hux smiled. “I was just… curious.”

“ _Curious_ ,” Ren echoed, biting.

The general turned to you then. “You’re still alive.”

Of course you were _alive_. Apparently, you were _important_ now. And that meant you got to avoid being included in the generic tantrum-fatality list. _Still alive. **Bah.**_ It sounded like a poor excuse. Your fingers twitched around the edges of your black cloak. Hux’s gaze snagged on the movement and held firmly on the dark fabric for _one, two, three_ —

“ _Well_ ,” he smirked, locking his hands behind his back. “It was _lovely_ seeing you, doctor—”

_Go deep throat a cactus._

“—but unfortunately I must be off.”

You didn’t have quite enough patience to force your lips into a polite smile. He turned the corner and you sighed.

_Thank goodness. Now you could **relax** —_

“If you just keep _standing there_ we’re going to be late.”

 _Snoke. Training. **Oh joy.** Another day’s worth of sitting in silence as your butt went numb against the frozen stone_ —

“ _Stop complaining_.”

“Of course, sir.”

He turned to walk down the hallway, a tad overdramatic for a student marching off to get to school on time if anyone bothered to ask your opinion on the matter. ~~Which they probably wouldn’t but whatever, their loss.~~ Always with the drama, this one. Was it just him? Or was it the whole ‘head of a group of murderous knights’ thing? Was it the First Order? The position of power?

_Well. When in Rome._

You straightened your cloak around your throat and hopped forward with enough gusto to make the dark fabric swoop out behind you in a grandiose show of theatrics _. Huh._ Maybe the melodramatics weren’t as stupid as you’d thought…You rushed after him, amused grin stretching your cheeks and black cloak billowing out behind you as if you were some kind of avenging supervillain.

He huffed in annoyance but your feet weren’t pulled out from beneath you, so you kept on prancing.

.

.

.

You weren’t sure why you were surprised.

It was illogical to think that the entirety of the First Order had been placed on hold solely for the purpose of continuing Kylo’s training. But to be fair, it wasn’t like you were really caught up with their usual activities as it was, what with the fact that until two weeks ago you’d been sequestered away in the infirmary.

The ship hit some turbulence and the floor rumbled beneath your feet.

The Knights of Ren sat scattered around you—all grim and all donning helmets that were eerily similar, if not mirror images, to the emo bucket that you’d grown so used to. They were a rather serious and intimidating bunch, not at all like the groups of stormtroopers that you so often infiltrated.

You’d been given a brief synopsis of your teammates by a surprisingly patient Phasma. The Knights of Ren had been hunting Luke Skywalker—the last Jedi. Luke had up and disappeared after Kylo massacred his students ~~that’s right _. Massacred._ Flaming fuck on a stick he was so _dramatic_~~. Apparently there had been some sort of map leading to his hideaway, but the Resistance had gotten ahold of it first and it was therefore reasonable to assume that Skywalker had returned to his position of prodigal master within their forces. So their ridiculously long game of hide-and-seek had been lost, and now they were out to go purge some dull town on some equally dull planet that apparently could be housing a bunch of potential Force Sensitives.  

You kicked your feet idly back and forth.

You’d never been on a mission with the First Order before and you’d been outfitted in all kinds of cool armor for the occasion. No doom helmet though, to your disappointment. You pinched the edges of your cloak between your fingers and wound the ends together and apart, together again, apart again, again and again, bored.

The ship gave another stomach-heaving lurch and you pulled your hood over your face.

_Are we **there** yet?_

You felt your companion wince at your loud mental whine. _So a no then._

_Are we **close** to there yet?_

No reply.

**_Close_ ** _to **close** to there then at least?_

“ _Yes_ ,” he spat. “Half an hour. At most. Now be _quiet_.”

All six of your other death buddies had looked up in surprise at their commander’s outburst. _Ah. That’s right. **They**_ couldn’t hear you.

You resumed tracing the designs in the metal flooring with your eyes and even though he was a solid six inches from you, you still felt Kylo Ren’s muscles unclench and heard him make himself more comfortable in his seat with a heavy, metallic, sigh. _Huh._ You’d never thought of it that way—that your projectile vomit thoughts could push your calm onto him as much as your anger. Nice to know you supposed. Actually, _really_ nice to know.

So you kept up your mental sketching, almost like a meditation.

When the ship finally reached its destination, it hit the ground very smoothly, which admittedly surprised you ~~what with the fact that you’d been tossed around like salad ingredients in your seat for the better part of an hour now~~. Not that you were complaining. Your poor stomach could only take so much before thought vomit became _actual_ vomit—

“You will stay onboard, doctor.”

You looked up at the dark menace with an arched brow.

“Doesn’t that defeat the point of coming along at all, sir?” _Personal medics ought to stay with their patients, should they not? That was the whole ‘personal’ part._

“You said yourself that you haven’t seen the field since you joined the First Order. You’ll be nothing but a hindrance.”

Well, he had a point.

You shrugged and drew your legs up into your seat. With him up and out of your personal space bubble, you had room to stretch. You yawned. _Whatever._ Perhaps you could manage to sneak in a nap while he was gone…

“If you say so, sir.”

The other Knights had already begun to filter out through the door and he moved to follow them with a heavy _clunk-clunk-clunk_ of thick boots. He paused at the ramp to shoot you one of those implied glares.

“ _Stay here_.”

_Was he **deaf.** You weren’t going anywhere._

Then your cloak pulled up and over your head seemingly of its own accord and you had to wrangle the thick fabric for a solid minute and a half before it settled peacefully back over your shoulders. Though quite a challenge, you did manage to free up your face just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of his smug ass heading out the door.

You huffed and pillowed your head against the armrest. _Stupid loser with his stupid dress and stupid face_. You pulled the cloak up like a blanket and yawned. Your eyes blinked closed and you sighed, content and warm. _Just a quick nap_ —

.

.

.

.

You were thrown from your impromptu bed with a massive _BOOM_ that took you a few dazed seconds to realize came from _outside_ the ship and not inside your skeleton.

**_What_ ** _in the name of—_

One of the Knights rushed onboard, dragging a second. Blood splattered across the metal panelling in big, fat, crimson drops and you stood, straightened your loose pants, and moved to his side. You helped ease the injured one to the ground, tearing through armor and fabric to get at whatever was causing the Knight to _leak_ all over the floor.

There was a massive laceration across his chest. It was bleeding heavy and fast but it looked shallow—or at least shallow enough to not have hit his heart or lungs. Not fatal. At least, not yet.

“Lift his legs.”

The other Knight nodded and you saw a trickle of blood running from a crack in his helmet. Concussion perhaps. Nothing that required your immediate attention.

“Not that high, just a little.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Awesome.” You looked around the ship, bewildered. “There’s no other nurses on board? No field medics? _Nothing?_ ”

He shook his head. “It was supposed to be a quick mission. And we don’t normally take medical staff with us as it is.”

You stood to grab your bag and returned to his side. You cleaned the laceration as quickly and efficiently as possible before beginning the tedious process of binding it tight with layers upon layers of gauze. Before you could ask just what on Earth had happened, your impromptu assistant spoke up.

“The Resistance knew we were coming somehow. They’re here. A guard platoon, maybe. Not overly large, but almost forty, at least.”

_Of course they were. That’s how these stories always went._

You sighed and stood, tugging at your hair in frustration.

“Give me your gun.”

“ _What_?”

“Give me your gun or I will _take_ your gun and _shoot you_ with it.”

He handed you the weapon and you weighed it in your hands. A new model. Not exactly one you were familiar with, but you apparently had more than enough people available to use as target practice.

You grabbed a to-go icepack from your bag and tossed it his way. “Take off your helmet. You might have a concussion. Stay upright, and no catnaps. How do you reload this thing?”

“It’s automatic—”

“Awesome.” You twisted the protruding hilt and it came to life in your hands with an angry red buzz. You nodded to your patient that was currently passed out on the floor. “Keep pressure on his chest. Not too hard, chest wounds are tricky. Too much heart and lungs. It’s a good thing it’s from a blade and not a gun…” you trailed off. “Man, I hope that idiot didn’t get shot again. I only brought so many damn bandages—”

And with that you were out the door and onto the surface of a planet whose name sort of escaped you at the moment. Perhaps you should have paid better attention when you were briefed on this little fieldtrip…

_Well. Too late for that now._

Time to go save your ass.

.

.

.

It took you only about ten minutes to pick your way through the forests and streams to find the source of the _boom_ that had woken you so impolitely. There was a crater in the ground from where a small bomb must have gone off. Or… something like that. You had no idea how these newfangled fighter ships worked, or what they could shoot off.

It took another minute to reach the battleground.

Injured Knight #2 had been fairly accurate in his estimate, but at this point a great many of those troops had been shot and/or slashed down. A random patrol then. They must have picked up on a distress call or something like that and rushed over to assist. Your eyes roved the field, counting up your companions. There was one, slicing the head off an officer with a nasty looking knife. There was number two, cradling an arm to his chest but still shooting like a champ. Three and four were trying to take down one of their X-Wings.

Then you saw Kylo Ren.

And _wow._

Sure, you’d seen him train. You’d seen the aftermath of his fits. All of that had been impressive. But this was _different_. Watching him fight to kill was just—well— ** _wow_**. For the first time you _truly_ understood the extent of his reputation. And you would be lying if you said you weren’t at least ~~a Hell of a lot~~ a teensy bit jealous.

But enough with your gawking. You had work to do.

So you began shooting your way towards injured Knight numero tres. Once you were close enough, he paused for just a moment in surprise and you sighed, exasperated, and swiveled to blast a Resistance officer who had been about to take off his head.

“What are you doing here, doctor?”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but then you probably would have lost sight of the soldier readying himself to tackle you. _You were buying groceries and skipping to show tunes, what did it **look** like you were doing?_

A few minutes passed in that repetitive _boom pew swish swish kapow_ style that you so enjoyed and it looked like your ragtag group of vicious murderers was about to stomp these damn Resistance folks into the dirt. Then your eyes caught on their final X-Wing—the one that your other two compadres had been working to shoot down. It did _indeed_ look like it was going down—dark smoke poured from every orifice and it was descending with that horrible screeching noise that always preempted a crash landing.

But the issue with this lay morseo in _which direction_ it was plunging.

You could hardly blame it.

If you were on their team and dying as it was, _you’d_ certainly try to take out Kylo Ren in a Kamikaze attack.

But as it was, you were _not_ on their team. And that made it unacceptable.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but him not even _turning in the direction of a hurdling ship_ was not it. Maybe he was waiting for it to get closer, or maybe he just didn’t care, or maybe ~~unlikely~~ he really just didn’t know it was about to smash him like a fat little bug across a windshield.  

It was going to hit him, pulverize his everything into nothing. His stupid insides would splatter across the ground like your nasty oatmeal. It was going to _hit_ him—

**_BEHIND YOU, MORON._ **

You shoved the image of the flaming ship at him as hard as you could—screamed it at the top of your proverbial lungs, urging the volume up and up _and up_ until it drowned out all other noise inside your head and out.

And then he swiveled, both hands flying up and with an almost audible _crash_ the X-Wing came skidding to a standstill in midair. Then he was twisting again and the ship hurdled over his head to explode over the group of soldiers at his flank in an ocean of fire and smoke, drowning them all.

_Woah._

The remaining five or six fighters fell to their knees in surrender. The Knights of Ren cut them down swiftly and without remorse. You sighed and plopped down into the dirt with a healthy _smack_. _Your first battle in… in **years**. And it had been **epic.** _

“ _What are you doing out here_?”

You blinked away some of the dirt in your eyes to glance up at the Knight looming over you. You shrugged, hoping that could count as a response. You were too tired to think, to speak. But when that bucket-glare kept on coming you sighed and rubbed a hand through your sweat-matted hair.

“Sorry, sir. Two members of the group came back to the ship injured. I didn’t know if anyone else had been hurt and, well… that’s my job, isn’t it?”

He stared down at you for a moment more, almost like he was confused. You had a very distinct feeling that he was furrowing his brow beneath that helmet. Then, he offered you a gloved hand and you heaved yourself to your feet.

.

.

.

Back in your ~~room~~ rooms on Illum, you stripped out of your nasty armor and slid into your bath. The hot water was _heavenly_ on your aching muscles and steam curled nicely through your hair, massaging away at your headache.

You began rubbing soap into your skin with a frown.

 _Sore. You were so **sore**_ **.** But _why_? It wasn’t like you were out of shape, and you hadn’t gotten hit at all during your brief stint on the battlefield. You kneaded your fingers into your temples and cursed the headache that stubbornly refused to go away.

.

.

.

Across the temple Ren stood at Snoke’s side.

“She’s not just a medic.”

His teacher hummed, gnarled fingers steepling in his lap. “I thought you’d figured that out quite some time ago.”

“I did.”

Snoke’s lips twisted, but somehow the harsh lines seemed almost approving. “Then what inspired your visit?”

“It was quiet. You heard of the skirmish on Lothal with the Resistance troops. There was an incident—her thoughts were loud, directed, and then they were silent. For the first time in as long as I’ve known her.”

The Supreme Leader hummed, settling back atop his throne with something that was perhaps a smile. “Then it seems we’re making progress.”

.

.

.

The water sloshed as you clamored out of the tub, slipping and sliding across the saturated floor. You climbed into bed with a huff, exhausted and damp.

It occurred to you as you burrowed into your blankets that you’d skipped out on your nightly training session.

Ah, well, you’d ~~probably~~ saved his life this morning. He could tolerate brooding alone for an evening. And if he threw a tantrum, well, at least your quarters were on the opposite side of the base.

.

.

.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enough with the cat. It’s been three days.”

Had you known that General Ginger was the proud owner of a scraggly orange kitty, you would have accepted his truce much more readily.

Millicent the cat was a spectacular beast that had you moon eyed and doughy.

You’d met the fantastic fur ball during an unfortunate stint in the infirmary in which for once _you_ were the poor soul confined to an uncomfortable bed with medical staff breathing down your neck. Apparently that ‘headache’ of yours was more than just a bit of excess pressure in your cranium. Your jittery replacement had tossed around words like ‘over-exertion’ and ‘unnatural chemical imbalances,’ as if you hadn’t figured that much out for yourself already. But you were Kylo Ren’s infamous Sith Sitter, and that meant your health was top priority. So they’d clamped your arms and legs to your bed so you couldn’t escape, and took all kinds of fun samples before finally hooking you to an IV and pumping you full of all your favorite narcotics.

It was during this drug induced haze that a cat had hopped up onto your chest and curled up neatly beneath your chin.

At first you thought you were just high.

Because there was a bright orange tabby rubbing its nose into your collarbone and swishing its fluffy tail back and forth far too close to your own sensitive nostrils.

But when you sneezed, the feline jumped in surprise and dug its claws into your throat. You weren’t _that_ delirious that your mind could create pain from nothing, so you could only assume that your animal buddy was _real_.

_And that was fucking **amazing.** _

Hux had appeared a few minutes (or perhaps a few hours) later. ~~You were high off your _mind_ with nothing but ginger kitty fur to keep you grounded. **_Time_** was a lost concept.~~

“Ah, there you are Millicent.”

He’d leaned over to scoop the cat into his arms and you’d almost straight up started bawling. All the medication swimming in your circulatory system had made you tired and emotional and _he was taking your only friend_. Hux froze when you started sniffling and you strained your bound hands towards him and his pet as far as you could.

“ _Please don’t take the cat_.”

He arched a brow. “She’s not supposed to be out of my quarters.” At this he shot the feline a reprimanding glare, as much good as that would do. “She must have gotten out when I—”

At this the tears had started to fall in fat streams down your cheeks and he looked downright _appalled_.

The General dropped the cat back onto your bed and your grin could have melted the heart of Darth Vader himself.

You beamed up at him, dopey, as Millicent settled back into the crook of your neck. “I love your cat.”

“…I can see that.”

The kitty rubbed against your chin and you sighed. “I _really_ love your cat.”

He let you keep Millicent until you could fight the opiates no more and slipped into a peaceful slumber. When you awoke the following afternoon, you made a silent promise that you would befriend Hux if only for the fact that you would in turn be given access to his cat.  

That had been a few days ago, and little progress had been made. To be fair, your ‘promise’ had been made under the influence of all kinds of drugs. No way would it hold up in any court of law. Associating with the ginger fuckboy was hardly at the top of your to-do list. But… _the **cat.**_

You poked at your bland oatmeal with a heavy heart.

_You’d probably never get to cuddle with Millicent again…_

“Is something wrong?”

The concussed Knight of Ren from your mission—Olin Ren, as he had later been introduced to you—had become somewhat of a steady companion. You were tentative to label him a _friend_ , (you strongly doubted that he would notice if you disappeared off the face of the planet) but he was someone to eat meals with and an ear to bitch to. And that was more than enough for you. _But speaking of bitching…_

“I have trouble tolerating General Hux.”

He hummed. “Don’t we all?”

“But I want his cat.”

His helmet caught the light in a funny way, head canting in confusion. “He has a cat?”

“I know, right!” you huffed. “I didn’t even know we were _allowed_ to have pets.” _You_ wanted a _pet_. Cat, dog, krayt dragon, _whatever._ It was no _fair_. Didn’t _you_ deserve some kind of loyal creature that was willing to snuggle up at your side during the night—

Then Kylo Ren was calling your name in that obnoxiously demanding way of his and you stood to dump the remainder of your nasty ass oat mush into the trash.

“Good morning, sir.”

He was frowning at you through his helmet. You could just _tell_. It was like a sixth sense developing just barely on the fringes of your perception. You couldn’t use the Force, but alas, at least you could say with 100% certainty that the leader of the Knights of Ren was glaring at you from beneath his fancy face-bucket.

You fell into step with him easily despite the fact that he was a solid head taller than you, and began the tedious and chilly trek to Snoke’s chambers. Your eyes traced lazily over the ceilings, catching on a stray crystal every now and then. A small cluster of the blue and green gems looked sort of like a cat’s paw if you squinted really, really hard, and that made you think of Millicent all over again. You wondered idly if you could lure the feline away from its master with some fish from the kitchens—

“ _Enough_ with the cat. It’s been _three days._ ”

 _Three measly days_ was hardly enough time to overcome an infatuation as strong as the one which had burrowed into your chest. He just didn’t _understand_. When you loved, you loved fiercely. And that tabby cat had stolen your heart.

He was _definitely_ rolling his eyes under his helmet, of that you were positive.

“Where did he even _get_ a cat?” you mused to yourself. “It’s not like they’re readily available… Do you think I could find one?”

“ _Stop_ with the cat.”

“But, sir—”

“ _Enough_.”

“ _But_ —”

Your mouth was forced closed and you sighed through your teeth. **_Fine_.** _Clearly_ someone must have been allergic…

.

.

.

Kylo’s daily Snoke-training-session proceeded as usual, but… there was _something_. Something _off_. You could have sworn that those ghostly blue eyes had rested on _you_ just as often as they did on their student, if maybe not moreso. Ever since that little fight against the Resistance and your subsequent sojourn in the infirmary, the Supreme Leader had taken to observing you silently. It was unnerving, to say the least. But you couldn’t help the curiosity that flooded every corner of your mind, drowning the natural sense of panic that came from being scrutinized by one’s superior.

_Was there something on your face?_

_Did you have food in your teeth?_

_Had you thought something wholly indecent about his student without even **realizing** it? _

_Surely_ you would have _realized it_ at least.

Because, yeah, Kylo Ren was certainly an attractive homicidal maniac and you’d come to appreciate how nice his butt looked despite the murder dress, and how the muscles in his arms worked when he was mauling things to death with his lightsaber, but you could have _sworn_ you’d kept all that _super low key—_

The wall opposite you exploded in a burst of crimson sparks and the Supreme Leader’s gnarled lips twisted up even more.

“ _Focus_ , Kylo.”

The dark menace didn’t even argue this time, just nodded brusquely and went back to doing whatever it was he was doing before he’d slipped and gauged a saber-sized hole in the rock. He didn’t look your way even once for the remainder of the session.

You sighed and went back to thinking about ginger cats.

.

.

.

It was now a week and a half past the day that you’d stormed into battle on Lothal—laying waste to Resistance troops and heroically saving the lives of your team. No progress had been made on Operation _Steal Hux’s Cat,_ and no progress had been made in your nightly mind sessions either. And yet, that wasn’t even the _worst_ of it.

Things were really starting to get out of hand.

Because while in the privacy of your head you were more than comfortable inflating the importance of your role in the skirmish on Lothal, the majority of people living at the base seemed to take the tales of your over exaggerated importance at face value.

Gossip was somewhat of a specialty of yours. But as with your stalking predicament, you _really_ were not enjoying being stuck on the other side of the fence. Sure, a little bit of speculating on your personal life and ~~nonexistent~~ supernatural abilities could be entertaining, but **_this_** , oh _this_ was not fun at all.

_Did you hear, did you hear, did you hear?_

**Yes,** you had heard.

And **no,** you were not a happy camper.

Some of the musings were accurate enough—that the good doctor ~~aka you~~ had saved the life of one of the infamous Knights of Ren. That you’d shot your way into the fray to join your teammates, despite not having seen battle for _years_. All that was well and good, but then, like a bad game of telephone, things started to go awry.

Apparently the Knight you’d saved from dying of blood loss was forever in your debt, and more interestingly, forever _in love_ with you. Head over heels. And oh, _better yet_ , Kylo Ren was _not_ happy with that. Every day you heard about how the two of them were set to duel at sunset for your hand. And speaking of Kylo Ren— _hohoho,_ now this is where things got _really_ interesting—did you know that the doom toddler had almost perished, that you had rushed in like some grand hero and saved the life of the poor damsel in distress? **_Yes_.** _Kylo Ren_ was **_actually_** being described as a _damsel in distress._

Jokes of secret marriages to War Lords were fine and dandy, but whispers that drew attention to _people who could legitimately murder you in your sleep_ were **not**.

You’d thought you were on pretty good terms with the dashing goth warrior. Heck, you’d survived even after insinuating that he had _robot genitals_. But this, oh _this._ Even if Kylo pardoned you, who was to say that the other Knight would be so generous? _You_ weren’t _friends_ with that one. ~~Were you friends with Kylo Ren? He would say ‘ _no, absolutely not. I don’t have **friends** ’._ You would have to disagree.~~ You didn’t even know the Knight’s _name._ And unlike Olin, he hadn’t bothered to seek you out to offer his thanks. Which _clearly_ was not a good sign. ~~~~

In your terror you’d holed yourself away in your quarters.

_~~If only you had a pet to keep you safe. A guard cat would do nicely.~~ _

You’d only disappeared for a few hours at this point and already your old assistant, Phasma, _and_ the fuckboy had come knocking.

_“Are you alright, ma’am?”  
“Yes, thank you.”_

_“Doctor, I was told to collect you for Kylo Ren’s training.”  
“I’m not feeling well, Captain. Please send my apologies.”_

_“Are you in there, doctor?”  
“ **No**.” _ Remember the cat, self. Remember the cat— _“…yes.”_  
“Can you come out?”  
“ **No**.”

It seemed you had become quite popular since your retreat, so it shouldn’t have surprised you when a few hours later your door slid open without your permission and Kylo Ren marched into your quarters.

“ _What are you doing in here?_ ”

_Was it not obvious?_

Every piece of fabric had been stripped from your bed and wrapped snugly around you in a kind of ~~terrible~~ makeshift shield. You were huddled in the corner by your strange fireplace with a swiped gun at your side and a scalpel within reach. A bit overdramatic perhaps, but—

“You’re _avoiding_ your responsibilities and obligations because you’re _afraid?_ ” He almost seemed _shocked_.

You nodded and before he could ~~inquire further~~ demand you explain yourself, your brain spat out a multitude of lovely images involving decapitation and other excessive limb loss.

He snorted. “No one is going to kill you.”

“Taking an arm or a leg wouldn’t _kill_ me.”

That was probably your best option at this point. Sure, waiting for the limb to regrow would be a bitch, but it was better than imminent _death_.

Another metallic scoff. “Your prejudice against robotics never ceases to amaze me.”

“The day I replace any part of myself with a hunk of metal is the day I _deserve_ to die.”

Apparently he didn’t deem that little comment worthy of a response. Instead, he continued unbidden, “You can’t just _skip_ our training because of some ridiculous phobia.”

“ _Your_ training,” you corrected. You still couldn’t understand why you needed to be there for that at all. Certainly your presence didn’t _help_ him in any way. If anything you thought you might be _hindering_ his progress.

“It’s important that you be there,” he growled.

But _why?_

“It doesn’t matter!”

It _mattered_ if the moment you left the safety of your room to accompany him, you wound up with a gun to your head or a blade in your gut.

“ _No one_ is going to kill you!” he snapped.

_Had he **heard** the rumors? Soldiers had been executed for far less when caught in the midst of his tantrums. _

At this he scoffed. “The Knights of Ren don’t _concern themselves_ with the opinions of _sheep_.”

You frowned up at him. That sounded like a proper lie if you’d ever heard one. “…you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m _sure_.”

_So injured Knight #1 wasn’t going to—_

“ ** _No._** _Enough_ with that.” He sighed and once again you were struck with the thought that if his head wasn’t neatly covered in metal, he would be digging his fingers into his temples or pulling hair out by the fistfuls. “ _I_ won’t kill you and _he_ won’t kill you.” A pause then, accompanied by the incredibly strong suspicion that his lips were pulled upwards into a vicious smirk beneath that mask. “But the Supreme Leader may if you continue to _avoid_ our training. In fact, _murder_ may be a mercy—”

You were up and tripping over your sheet fort to get to the door before he could finish the threat.

As you hurried down the hallway with Kylo Ren on your tail, you _swore_ that even if no distorted rumbling came from that stupid bucket, he was _definitely_ laughing at you.

.

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	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something had changed.
> 
> And you had no idea what you had done or how to go about reversing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hated the last chapter but you guys were super nice about it anyways and wow let me just say that was a really awesome surprise. So this one is better. And finally we're getting somewhere.

Emotions were not exactly your ‘forte.’

You were too sarcastic. Too blasé and chill in situations that would leave most people sobbing in a corner. It was just who you _were_. And it’s not like you could _help_ it. Believe me, people had _tried_ to ‘fix you’ and they had _failed_. You’d made sure of that.

Kylo Ren didn’t exactly strike you as someone who was particularly emotionally competent either. While you were like an oblivious little potato, he was the emotionally stunted teen who didn’t know how to solve his problems in any fashion that didn’t involve stabbing or screaming.

The pair of you were both socially deficient fucks, and you had _assumed_ therefore that you would never have to deal with any of that ‘touchy feely’ stuff you so despised.

But then one morning after your daily subpar breakfast with Olin Ren and lamenting once more about how Millicent the cat continued to avoid your clutches, you came face to face with a Kylo Ren who somehow seemed even more downtrodden than usual.

For one thing, he didn’t immediately yell at you for whining about Hux and his pet.

Nor did he wince when you tripped over a rock and proceeded to mentally screech all kinds of unpleasantness. Instead, he’d grabbed your arm, hauled you up from the ground, and continued on his way.

Now _that_ was odd.

He was silent throughout the entirety of his training, even when the Supreme Leader acknowledged his progress with something that may have even been a _compliment_. No smug grin, no visible boost to the ego, not even a polite _thank you, sir._

You frowned over at him and forced your thoughts up a notch, mindful of the headache that the increase in volume was sure to bring with it.

_Are you alright?_

There was no response, even though you weren’t quite sure you were expecting one. _Had you been expecting one?_ You frowned and spent the rest of the hour focusing intently on Snoke’s instructions and keeping your thoughts as calm as you could, hoping that perhaps your extra effort would help bump his mood from super sulkiness to just regular old sulkiness.

It did not.

At the end of the day, you sat in your usual spot on the cold cavern floor, counting and recounting his thirty-two freckles as he sifted through your thoughts with much less gusto than usual ~~which was really saying something, because at this point there really wasn’t much _**gusto** _ left to begin with when it came to untangling your brain.~~

Again you asked, out loud this time, “Are you okay?”

“You never mention it.”

Your brow furrowed.

“You never think about it either.”

More furrowing. “What are you talking about, sir?”

“The _scar_ ,” he snapped, brown eyes dark with anger that you _knew_ hadn’t been there a moment ago. He jabbed a gloved finger at the vivid red slash spanning his face. “ _Why?_ You were so _distraught—_ ” he mocked. “—so _upset_ that I’d be leaving your care _sullied_. But now? I don’t think it’s crossed your mind _once_.”

“You’re still _in_ my care,” you pointed out dully.

“Don’t avoid the question!”

 _Why?_ **_He_** clearly was. Did he _honestly_ think he could start spouting nonsense about the state of his face and you’d _believe_ that it was the reason he was all sad and droopy? _Please_. Emotionally constipated or otherwise, you deserved _some_ credit.

But he just kept on glaring so you sighed and let the baby have his bottle.

“It wasn’t _you_ —it wasn’t the scar _itself_ that I was so _‘distraught’_ over,” you explained, trying to squash the aggravation just waiting to leap from your tongue and tear him a new one. He was upset and lashing out. You should be… _comforting?_ Right? That was how this was supposed to work. “I was _upset_ because it meant that I hadn’t been able to fix you. It would be something that anyone could look at and think ‘ ** _gee_** _. That First Order Doctor, man, she’s **terrible.**_ ’ I was upset because it made _m_ e look incompetent.”

You leaned back against the stone wall and drew your cloak up more snugly around your shoulders.

“But it doesn’t matter because you always wear your mask. No one can see it and no one can even _start_ coming to conclusions that **_I_** was the one who messed up. So why should I think about it?”

He was starting to deflate, like he was realizing that picking a fight solely for the sake of picking a fight didn’t really work when your opponent was armed to the teeth and ready to fire.

“Look,” you tried, tentative, “if something’s bothering you, that’s alright and… well, you don’t _have_ to talk about it. Just...” You were losing steam. _Where did you go from here? And you were doing so **well** in comparison to your normal, lazy attempts at comfort. _ “I mean, you _can_ if you want to. So…” You awkwardly shifted back and forth on your numb rear. “I…” It was time to give up before you gave yourself an aneurism trying to be _nice_. You sighed, long and heavy. “…Are we done for today, sir?”

He nodded, slow, and you were up and out of the crystal cave at a speed that could only be rivaled by perhaps an X-Wing, or the transformation of Hux’s face whenever Ren entered the room.

The door to your quarters slid shut behind you with a _bang_ and you sunk to the floor.

_Well._

That was enough social interaction for the next… _month? Day? Year? Week?_ **Week**. Yes. That seemed about right.

Look at you, trying to play therapist to the most mentally disturbed human being in the entirety of the First Order, perhaps in the _universe_ ~~okay. That was a small exaggeration~~. You deserved a medal, or at the very least a breakfast that consisted of something other than greying oat sludge.

You stripped and hauled your sorry ass into bed, all the while reassuring yourself that this depression of his was bound to have run its course by tomorrow morning. So yes, everything was fine _. It **would** be fine. _You just had to sleep…

.

.

.

During your morning meal with Olin, you caught sight of your dearest bedraggled Knight heading out the door of the dining hall with his own plate of food. There was still a bit of excess slump to his shoulders, but he didn’t seem as… _draggy_ as he had the other day.

That evening you propped yourself up against the cave walls, mindful as always to avoid laying against the crystals that could jab your spine, and waited for Kylo Ren to remove his bucket and take his customary place across from you. But instead of plopping himself directly in front of you as per usual, he moved to sit a little to your right, just a bit out of focus. That familiar probing sensation didn’t come and your lips curled downwards in confusion.

“What was your relationship like with your father?”

 _Well._ You had certainly heard more blunt conversation starters in the past, but you couldn’t for the life of your remember when.

You shrugged. “Normal? I suppose? He was a doctor, I wanted to be a doctor, you know. All that trash. We had a falling out over my…” you paused, trying to pick out the right word, “ _beliefs_ about how medicine should be practiced.” There had been endless fighting, the breaking of many things, and finally a promise to never speak again. “We didn’t see eye to eye.”

“About your—” a frown, “—hatred of prosthetics?” he guessed.

“Right.”

“And you killed him?”

“Ye—I’m sorry, **_what?_** _”_

“So he’s still alive.”

“Well, that I don’t know. He could be ruling some planet for all I care.” _More likely he’d been shot for overcharging some mob boss_. “We didn’t part on good terms. And I haven’t exactly bothered to check on him.” _But you hadn’t fucking **killed** him Jesus Christ. _You hesitated. “I’m guessing that you and your dad… aren’t really buddy-buddy either?”

“I hate my father.”

“It’s fine to hate your father.”

“I killed my father.”

“…ah.”

_You really should have seen that coming._

At this he rubbed his palms into his eyes. “I had to. There was no other way. And I don’t care about him—I _don’t_.”

It sounded like the exact opposite to you, but you kept your mouth shut and your thoughts judgement free.

“I thought it would help,” he began, almost _shaky_. “I thought if I was able to finally detach myself from who I used to be in such a permanent way, that I wouldn’t _struggle_ anymore.” He hesitated. “It was my mother’s birthday yesterday and I… _thought_ of them.”

“There’s no one-step-solution to overcoming any struggle, that’s why it’s a _struggle_ ,” you tried, awkward, and feeling very much like all kinds of sap were about to start pouring from every available orifice on your body. “Whatever you were struggling with… it’s probably going to take a lot more than…” you choked, “ _killing_ your dad to get over.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped. “I’ve tried so hard to escape it, but I _can’t_.” He leaned back, mouth twisted up into a sardonic grin. “It’s in my _blood_.”

You shifted, uncomfortable, and unsure how to proceed. “If it makes you feel any better… there’s always blood transfusions?”

Oh, that was the _wrong_ thing to say. You knew it the moment the words tumbled off your tongue. You bit back a wince because _stupid, stupid, **stupid,** that’s not what he meant by **blood,** you **turd** , _but then, the unholy terror began to _laugh_.

And not the ‘I assume he’s laughing at me because even though I can’t hear it, I’m too much of a moron _not_ to giggle at’ kind of laugh.

Actual full body _laughter._

The kind where even though his lips were pressed tight and only a few snorts made their way past, his entire body was _shaking_ with it.

It ran its course pretty darn quickly, but _still_.

_You had made Kylo Ren **laugh**_ **.**

It was best to step away from the stage gracefully and claim this glorious victory while you could. Instead, high on success, you prattled on.

“If you can’t seem to overcome whatever it is that’s bothering you, sir, maybe it’s best not to fight it, you know? Turn that ‘weakness’ into an advantage and all that. If you really can’t escape it, then you’ll have to start working with it at some point. Better to start now, right?”

His brow furrowed, as if in deep thought.

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

 _It would help if you knew what this ‘struggle’ was with._ But you had a strong feeling he was playing this close to the chest and wouldn’t surrender that tidbit of information very easily. So instead, you reached for what little threads you had control of.

“Maybe look at it like me.”

He snorted. “Like **_you_** _?_ ”

“Like my ‘ _loud thoughts_ ,’” you clarified. “We can’t find a way to keep them out of your head, and, well,” you recalled the flaming X-Wing hurtling towards him, “it _does_ have its practical uses. And maybe it’s better ‘unblocked’ where they can be… well, _useful_.”

Again you winced and realized that _yet again_ that had perhaps been the very _wrong_ thing to suggest. You’d spent almost a month together now working to close his mind off from your never-ending sea of mental gibberish, and suggesting you just _quit? Remove the barricades he’d been building and welcome you in with open arms?_ It was ludicrous.

But rather than call you out on that, or just flat out turn and storm away, he looked _pensive_. Almost as if he was actually taking it into consideration.

Kylo Ren sat there silently; brow heavy and low as he stared off into the empty space behind your head.

You hesitated, then cautiously, “Sir…?”

He seemed to shake himself back into focus, dark eyes sharpening and flickering briefly over your face. Then he stood, pulling his helmet back into place in the process.

“I think we’re finished for tonight, doctor.”

_But you hadn’t even **done** anything. _

He offered you a hand and you pulled yourself to your feet. You stared at him, curious, and unable to read anything past that damn mask.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, doctor.”

You frowned but nodded, slow. “Of course, sir.”

He released your hand and turned to leave without another word, fading from sight as he moved further and further down the black hallways. You readjusted the heavy fabric pinned around your throat with a sigh and followed him into the dark.

.

.

.

Something had changed.

And you had no idea what you had done or how to go about reversing it.

That morning at breakfast, you and Olin were joined by another Knight of Ren. Kylo plopped himself at your side, no food in sight, and just… _sat_ there. He nodded in greeting, of course, and Olin had craned his head in a stiff, respectful, bow in return. But other than that... he just… He was just _sitting_ there. All silent and menacing.

You had managed to snag a muffin this morning (a rare treat) but now you were too nervous to eat it. So instead you picked at the pastry until it had crumpled between your fingers into completely inedible hunks of goop.

“Have you seen your cat lately?”

 _Well,_ at least _one_ of you hadn’t been shocked into paralysis.

You pushed your plate of crumbs to the side. “No. I tried earlier this week, but Hux is being stubborn.”

Olin huffed, amused. “I suppose you can’t blame him. You did try to break into his quarters.”

“Well, it’s his own fault,” you sniffed, indignant. “He shouldn’t have paraded Millicent in front of my face and then just—just _decided_ to _steal_ her away forever!” And ** _try_** to break in? Bah! You _had_ broken in, _thank you very much_. Your downfall had been little more than a matter of _not knowing_ that the General would be in the room at the same time…

“I don’t understand why you can’t just find your own pet,” the Knight tacked on as he always did—half annoyed, half befuddled. Clearly he was not used to dealing with the everyday problems of peasants.

“You don’t understand,” you said. “It’s a matter of principle.”

It had officially reached the point where you could _actually feel_ Kylo Ren’s gaze boring into your skin with all the subtly of a fighter jet.

You turned to him slowly. “…is there something you need, sir?”

“No.”

And that was it. Silence and staring.

“… _right_.” You turned back to your other companion, stiff. “So… do _you_ know how I could steal the cat?”

 .

.

.

He wasn’t going away.

You’d say he followed you around like a little lost puppy, but he was far too intimidating for that, so you’d probably have to call him something like “wayward otter.”

You were used to accompanying the Knight to and from his training sessions with Snoke, and then meeting him at your little cave for your own nightly get-togethers, but…

Your door slid open and you jolted to a halt.

“Good… evening, sir.”

He nodded politely and moved aside for you to join him in the hall. You fell into step with him cautiously, constantly casting sharp glances over your shoulder. _What on Earth was going **on** —_

“I spoke with the Supreme Leader about what you suggested last night,” he hummed, far too nonchalant. “He thinks it would be better to travel down that path—that it will make me stronger—so that’s what we will do.”

 _That path?_ Meaning—

“ _Meaning_ that from now on, we will work to groom your mind rather than repress it.”

You thought of the gruesome headache that had practically cracked your skull in two and the nausea which had pulled at your stomach for days afterwards. Your hesitance must have shown on your face ~~or perhaps he was just hearing those obnoxiously loud thoughts of yours again.~~

“Small steps, of course. The Supreme Leader told me that you forced yourself along too quickly on Lothal, and that’s what caused your… _malady_.”

That made sense… sort of.

But he was being so—so _affable_. Civil. **_Polite_** even. Not that he was normally _mean_ to you. It was just… He seemed almost _level headed_. It was throwing you off.

You stepped into the familiar crystal cave and moved to claim your usual spot. Gloved hands wrapped around your forearms and dragged you to the center of the room.

“No, not today. I need you to show me what you see.”

“Pardon?”

Kylo sighed and removed his helmet with a _hiss_ of compressed air that was growing more and more familiar as the weeks passed. His eyes were closed. He circled you slowly and you shuffled backwards to avoid colliding with his chest.

“On Lothal I could _see_ what you were thinking, not just hear it. I need you to try that again. _Show me_ what you see.”

Well… you could _attempt_.

 _Couldn’t succeed if you never tried,_ and all that rubbish… So you closed your eyes and breathed in through your nose slow and deep— _once, twice, three times._

Then you opened your eyes, focused on one particularly bright blue crystal, and began to _push_.

.

.

.

An attempt had indeed been made.

And it was quite a _valiant_ attempt if anyone bothered to ask you about the affair.

“It won’t be so harsh the next time, I’m sure.”

You glared up at him from your place sprawled across the hospital bed—arms stiff with IVs and eyes dark with all kinds of ugly profanities that your tongue was too heavy to let loose _. Easy for him to say. **He** hadn’t passed out and cracked his head on a fucking **rock**._

He frowned at the line of stitches stretching across your forehead. He reached out, like he was about to tap it with his finger, but froze and lowered his hand back to his side at your stern glower. “It won’t get any easier if you stop trying.”

_You weren’t going to fucking **quit** just because he’d had to haul your unconscious butt to the infirmary. _

He sighed, relieved. “Good.”

_But you had one condition._

The Knight of Ren arched a brow in challenge and you stared him down with all the focus and silent power of a Jedi. His lips twitched into something that could best be described as a snarl.

“ _I’m not going to steal a cat for you._ ”

You sighed and collapsed back into your pillows. Well, you’d _tried_ at least.

.

.

.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was adorable.
> 
> In a hideously grotesque sort of way.

Eight more midnight training sessions and three trips to the infirmary later proved that, no, controlling what you projected and at what volume was not _impossible_ , just… very complicated.

Without the adrenaline and stress of battle to push you along, making it _work_ and doing so in a way that didn’t wind up with you overexerting yourself and collapsing into Kylo Ren’s arms was _hard_.

Speaking of the black swathed terror, he’d been eerily patient about the whole ordeal—an attribute you hadn’t thought he _possibly_ possessed. But he’d only run his saber through the walls _three_ times over the past week, and surely that was an improvement. During one of those fits he’d shattered a clump of those pretty crystals that lined your cave. You found a shard stuck in your hair when you’d gone to bathe later that night and decided to keep it tucked in your pocket. It felt… strange. Almost ethereal, and it seemed to help a little with the whole ‘projecting’ thing. You’d only lost it twice in the laundry at this point, but you should probably put it on a string if you _really_ didn’t want to misplace it forever...

Apparently three tantrums and five instances of ‘ _I didn’t pass out today_ ’ had been a good enough development for Snoke, so you were being shipped off on another mission. This time you _had_ paid attention at briefing, and were more than happy to hear that you’d be invading a small settlement on Bal'demnic—a _tropical_ planet.  With beaches and islands and _actual heat_.

You’d been told the planet had a major supply of a rare mineral called Cortosis Ore—a hunk of brittle metal that could _actually stop lightsabers from murdering you._ It could short out the glowing plasma sticks ~~only temporarily of course~~ and even stop blaster fire. In short, this stuff sounded fantastic.

But even _more_ fantastic was the whole ‘sandy white beaches and sparkling seas’ thing.

You were practically vibrating with excitement as you loaded up your necessary bags of first aid equipment and spare clothing onto the ship.

This was not a duty of the Knights of Ren, so unfortunately you wouldn’t get to bug Olin throughout the mission. However, you were still tag teaming it with the one and only emo Barbie, so at least you had _someone_ familiar to ~~bother~~ talk with. Stormtroopers were all well and good, but you never saw their faces, and memorizing those numbers of theirs was so _obnoxious_. While you loved infiltrating their ranks on occasion to spread gossip and fear alike, in the long run they were hardly what you’d consider _friends_.

~~…the fact that ** _Kylo Ren_** was someone you considered to be your _friend_ was **_probably_** not a good sign for your mental wellbeing. ~~

“You do realize that the Kon’me are _hostile_ ,” the bucket-head piped in with that usual haughtiness of his, head swiveling back and forth to watch as you puttered about. “This isn’t a _vacation_. We go in for the ore and we leave.”

The knight had ~~ordered~~ suggested that you pack a week’s worth of provisions and clothing, and _that implied_ you’d be there for a week, and **_that_** implied vacation.

‘Hostile’ lifeforms or otherwise.

He snorted. One of the Captains called him over and he left you to your packing.

.

.

.

You had just settled into your self-designated seat and were doing a bit of ‘Stormtrooper watching’ when Kylo Ren came over and plopped himself down next to you just a bit too close for comfort. You weren’t surprised, not anymore. He’d been tailing you ever since your little heart to heart during that midnight training session ten or so days ago. And it wasn’t like you were _complaining_ ~~he was totally your bff now that your old assistant whose name you still couldn’t remember had ** _ditched_ ** you for your pretty and twitchy replacement. ~~You just wished that maybe he’d move just a _smidge_ to the left so your arms weren’t pressed together.

You shuffled around a bit to accommodate him and went back to eye-stalking your teammates.

Lots of FNs. That was Phasma’s division, wasn’t it? Huh. You were surprised she’d let them go off into the great big galaxy without her. Especially after that one FN soldier had up and committed treason before going and shoving her down a garbage shoot.

Soon enough watching your fellow crew members began to bore you ~~there was only so much time you could spend eavesdropping on Stormtrooper gossip. Frankly, it was terrible.~~ And Heavens knew that your death buddy was equally terrible at small talk. It was like trying to communicate with a mentally challenged brick wall. He shifted pointedly at that, an elbow catching you sharply in the side, and you stretched with an obnoxious yawn, whacking him upside the back of his stupid helmet in the process. He glared down at you.

“ _Stop it_.”

_Well he started it._

He shifted pointedly to face the opposite wall and you sighed. _Fine_. **_Be_** _that way._

So you stood, rifled a bit through your bags upon bags of first aid supplies to find an— _ah, **there**_ it was—before returning to your seat with a graceful little hop. Unlike _you_ , **_he_** didn’t scooch over in respect of your personal space bubble. So you just forced your way in and ignored how your knees kept bumping.  

You slowly began braiding together the strips of gauze, fingers tangling a bit near the end, but ultimately creating a very lovely and sturdy chain. You could feel Kylo’s gaze on you—perhaps curious, perhaps just bored. Then you uncapped the needle you had swiped, pulled your pretty crystal shard from your pocket, and began scrapping into the surface. And then, just like that, the crystal was swiped from your hands and you had to pull your fingers to a screeching standstill to keep from stabbing yourself.

“ _What do you think you’re doing?!”_

You blinked up at him, confused. _Putting a hole into your crystal? So that you could shove the gauze through it? What was so wrong with that?_ He looked downright _horrified_. As much as any bucket could really look horrified.

“This is a _Kyber Crystal_ ,” he hissed. “Do you even know what that is?!”

Well, no…

“It’s what’s used in _lightsabers_ ,” he snapped. “And they’re incredibly powerful, and unstable. If you break it, it could _destroy this ship_.” You swallowed. _Oh._ _Well…_ _would your face have been red._ He turned the shining blue gem over and over in his hands. “Where did you even get this?”

Your thoughts flashed back to one of his tantrums in the cave and subsequently finding the shard in your hair. And, _hey,_ speaking of that, **_he’d_** destroyed an ‘unstable Kyber crystal’ and you were still here, all in one piece and nicely not-blown-up.

“There’s a difference between a crystal being used against another by a _Force user_ , and a _doctor_ trying to put a hole into it with a _needle_ ,” the bucket glowered down at you and your syringe. You pocketed it discreetly.

The Stormtroopers were gawking at you in sheer terror.

You flushed and fidgeted in your seat. “…sorry, sir.”

Now he was glaring at your poor little crystal like he could set it on fire if he stared hard enough. “You need to be more careful.”

You nodded, thoroughly mortified. “I understand, sir.”

He continued with that dour look of his for a few more seconds before a metallic sigh shook his helmet and he snatched the gauze braid from your lap. Then his lightsaber was out and you could have sworn you heard one of the troopers screech in a truly admirable pitch before he brought the very tip of that crackling plasma blade to your crystal. There was a lot of hissing and smoking and then that red beam of doom was gone and Kylo Ren was shoving a sloppily tied together Kyber crystal necklace into your hands—gauze pulled hurriedly through a jagged hole in the glittering blue gem.

“ _There_.” A pause. “And don’t do it again.”

You secured the gauze chain around your neck with a firm nod. It clashed horribly with the sleek black fabric and metal clasps of your cloak. “Got it.”

You waved reassuringly at the Stormtroopers practically huddled together in the opposite corner and one straight up collapsed to the floor. You huffed and buried your face into the armrest, pulling the cloak over your head.

.

.

.

“Stay here.”

He never let you do _anything_.

The dark Knight was pacing the floor, looking over bags and troops and tallying up everything else he would need. Apparently _you_ were not a part of that list.

One of those heavily implied frowns was shot your way. “It’s for your safety.”

 ** _Safety?_** You could have blown a hole straight through the metal paneling earlier out of sheer _incompetence_ trying to stick a needle through a glowy Jedi _bomb_ stone. You were ‘safe’ _nowhere._ And if anything, your little stint on Lothal should have proved that you were _more_ than capable of handling yourself in battle. Particularly if you had a gun. ~~Which he had **also** confiscated, that fuckface.~~

“This is a planet of hostiles,” he repeated for the ~~third~~ ~~fourth~~ _fifth_ time, as if you _cared_ about that at _all_. “And you can’t risk yourself because you want to _sunbathe_.”

You didn’t want to _sunbathe_. You just wanted to spend some time exploring a world where frostbite wouldn’t start nibbling on your extremities the second you stepped outside. _All_ you wanted was to feel the _sun_ on your cheeks and maybe jump into that crystalline ocean you’d seen during the landing.  You were a few seconds away from falling to your knees and _begging_ —

“I’ve assigned a team of Stormtroopers to stay with the ship in case anything happens.” _Was he **fucking** kidding?_ He shoved one of those shiny, new, personal commlinks into your hands. “If there is an emergency I’ll contact you through this _.” And what could you **do** exactly if that were to happen? He’d **swiped** your gun_. “ _Enough,_ ” he finally snapped, turning on his heel and stomping in the opposite direction. “Your orders are to remain here, in this ship. You _will not_ leave the perimeter unless given express permission to do otherwise.”

He didn’t even wait for your affirmative—just stormed out the door with the rest of his platoon of jittery Stormtroopers, spitting commands and terrorizing the poor dears far more than they deserved.

After a few moments of staring after him in part shock, ~~greater~~ part annoyance, you turned to the Stormtrooper closest to you with a sweet little smile.

“So… perimeter. That includes the area _around_ the ship too, right?”

Even with his face and body entirely covered in shining white armor, he still managed to look utterly horrified.

While you could trust your bestest buddy not to gore you with his crackling saber, these poor Stormtroopers _couldn’t_. And it was awfully rude not to take their lives into account. Getting your little group escort murdered just because you wanted to explore would surely not win you any allies. And even if Ren was the one who did the deed, _you’d_ probably be blamed for the sudden decrease in man power. It wasn’t worth it.

So you sighed and collapsed back dramatically into your seat. The part of the cushions that Kylo had claimed earlier were still warm, and if you closed your eyes and pretended _really, really hard,_ you could imagine that heat was from the glorious sun just out of reach.

.

.

.

_WOMP._

The Stormtroopers jumped and guns were whipped from holsters before you could even find it in you to wince. You shifted under your cloak and stared curiously at the _thing_ smooshed against the glass paneling.

It was an ugly yellow lump splattered with thick streaks of purple and it looked very much dead.

But— ** _ah_ , **not _quite_ dead. The thing was moving. Slow and obviously quite delirious from being smashed face-first into the side of a ship, but starting to flutter about again nonetheless. Its fat little body made all kinds of interesting squelching noises against the glass and its clawed wings were frantically scrabbling about the paneling for some kind of purchase. A curled beak pecked angrily at its assaulter and it blinked stupidly with beady yellow eyes.

“What is it?” you asked, curious.

The trooper closest to you re-holstered his weapon and turned to stare at the hideous, hairless, bird thing trying to claw its way into your ship.

“It’s a hawk-bat,” he said. “They’re native to Bal'demnic. Nothing to worry over. It must have gotten confused and run into the ship.”

It was **_adorable_.**

In a hideously grotesque sort of way.

You frowned as it slipped and slid all over the place. “I think it hurt its wing.”

“…I can bring it in, if you want, ma’am,” the trooper offered hesitantly. “Hawk-bats are apparently considered a delicacy. The meat is supposed to be delicou—”

“ _What?_ No!” you gawked. “I’m not going to _eat_ it!” You turned back to window. “I want to fix it!”

Now, you were no veterinarian, but how hard could setting a wing be? Surely no worse than working with a broken arm or a leg.

“Ma’am…?”

“I can go grab it,” you offered. It didn’t look all too friendly, and you swore you could see a row of pointy little teeth poking out from beneath its beak. No point in any of your companions mauling themselves so that you could play with an angry, reptavian, invalid.

“NO— _no_ ,” the Stormtrooper hurriedly cut in. “We can get it for you, ma’am. It’s not a problem.”

Your brow furrowed. “But it’s only right there—”

“ **No**!” he spluttered. “I—M-My apologies, ma’am. But Lord Ren made it _very_ clear that you’re not to be allowed outside of the ship under any circumstance, and, I—well—I—”

Part of you was sweltering in righteous indignation. _Did Kylo Ren **really** think he could lock you away in this ~~admittedly comfortable~~ tin can while he was off plundering the local villages like some kind of gothic space pirate? _ The other, _arguably nicer_ part, reminded you that these poor bastards would take the brunt of Darth Cranky Pants’ fury if he found out you’d flipped him the bird and ventured out into the great big world.

So you sighed, nodded your assent, and went to retrieve your med bags.

.

.

.

It took three whole Stormtroopers to wrangle your hawk-bat into the ship. Those _had_ been teeth you’d seen. And quite sharp ones at that, going by the numerous punctures in their white armor.  

Two vials of Diazepam later and your hawk-bat was sprawled out and snoring in your lap. You’d set and bandaged the wing to the best of your ability ~~which is pretty great bandage work, to be fair~~ and had a bowl of dried fruits and meats at the ready for whenever it started to wake up. It was quite the spiky beast, and keeping it on your thighs wasn’t exactly comfortable, but there was a pleasant heaviness to it, and its scales were warm to the touch.

It seemed to wake slowly, then all at once. Naturally, the poor dear was manic. It flew ~~or tried at least~~ spastically around the room, knocking into furniture and Stormtroopers alike. You managed to corner it under a control panel and sat silently at its side, humming peacefully and trying to draw it out. Another hour and you had managed to coax the creature into nipping small hunks of peach from between your fingers. By the end of the night and you had it rubbing its sharp beak into your palm in silent request for pets and cuddles.

You had no idea how to check if it was male or female, but decided after much mulling that it hardly mattered. You named it Frederick.

.

.

.

The next four days passed with a pleasant sort of laziness.

Frederick hopped about the ship or perched himself on your shoulder, silently observing. The Stormtroopers seemed part stunned, part unnerved, part awed by your new companion. He was pleasant enough to them—though there were a few (particularly the one who had offered to wrangle him for you in the first place) that he would snap at if they came too close. And he didn’t seem to like sudden movement much. But other than that, the hawk-bat was a decent pet. ~~Not as great as a cat, but whatever. You’d take what you could get.~~

While you all had expected Kylo Ren to be gone for at least a week, your dashing doom Knight’s platoon had radioed in early that morning to inform you and your ragtag crew that they were returning to the ship earlier than predicted, bags upon bags of Cortosis Ore in hand.

You were in the bathroom with they arrived. You hadn’t really thought your presence was necessary in the whole ‘welcome back!’ process, so you were taking your sweet time washing your hair and brushing out all the knots that came from your dear Frederick trying to nest in it (he’d only tried once or twice to be fair. He was a quick learner).

Then, there was a clatter, a _boom_ , lots of scraping and hissing, and finally a completely inhuman screech that flooded your veins with ice.

You hurried back into the control room, and lo, there stood Kylo Ren, looking very much like he’d just been attacked by an angry hawk-bat. And there was your hawk-bat, looking very much like he’d just been attacked by an even angrier Kylo Ren.

You gaped in horror.

“You killed him!”

He turned on you with a snarl. “What was that _thing_ doing on the ship?!”

“You **killed** Frederick!” you repeated, aghast, as if that was the answer to everything and anything. Why? **Why?** _Why_ would he harm such an innocent little muffin—

 “It _attacked_ me,” he hissed. The Stormtroopers were already hurriedly working to clear away your slain pet, as if they weren’t at all bothered by the vicious homicide they’d just bore witness too. “ _Why_ was that thing on the ship?”

 _He_ was not a ‘thing.’ H _e_ is _— **was** —_your _pet!_

He spluttered. “A _pet_?” Ren turned on your guard group. “You _let her_ bring that thing onboard?”

“Sh-She was insistent, sir,” one of the troopers spluttered. “Sh-She was threatening to leave the ship to retrieve it, so I, I-I mean, _we_ —we—”

What did it _matter_ how Frederick had found his way into your stupid flying tin box? He was _dead_ now! Sure, he had chewed on your hair, clawed your legs, and tried more than once to remove your fingers. He was no Millicent—fluffy and lovely and sweet—but that hawk-bat had been _yours_. You had plucked him from the cruel, cruel tropical world and healed him. And while you couldn’t bring yourself to sob over his slain body, Kylo Ren had still _murdered_ him.

You looked up to see the black swathed bat butcher was looming over you.

“You can’t actually be that upset over an _animal._ ”

You glared up at him, red faced and arms crossed tight over your chest. You could and you would. But it wasn’t just Frederick. It was this _entire_ situation.

 _Apologize_.

He scoffed. “I’m not going to _apologize_.”

**_Fine_ ** **.**

If he was going to be a brat over it, so would you. So you turned with a huff and folded yourself neatly into your chair with all the grace of a vengeful queen. You locked your eyes firmly on the wall and began mentally rattling off every drug you could think of. Then brands of bandages. Then needle thicknesses versus skin type. And syringe quantities. Anything and everything. Because you wanted to give him the silent treatment, and with your stupid, prattling brain you couldn’t really do that. But refusing to acknowledge him even in _thought_ was certainly the next best thing.

Even when he pointedly plopped himself next to you and situated his tall frame so that he was all up in your personal space, you kept your gaze on the paneling and nose upturned.

Out of the corner of your eye you could see the Stormtroopers exchange nervous glances and slowly back away from your little bubble of irritation.

.

.

.

It had only been a day and a half since you’d initiated Mission _Ignore Bucket-Head at all Costs_ , and already the rest of the base was suffering for it.

Kylo Ren liked to act like he couldn’t care less if you disappeared off the face of the planet—like you _weren’t_ his only friend. ~~Because you **were** his friend, as much as he was yours. And certainly you were the _only_ one willing to tolerate him on a regular basis.~~ He liked to act all tough and macho and ‘hur dur hur I’m a mystical murder knight, I don’t need _friends._ ’ But he was still human, and homo sapiens had this annoyingly innate need to make allies. And now that he had you, it seemed that he was having a pretty difficult time _not_ having you.

Part of it was hysterically satisfying. If that made sense.

The other part was also just a teensy bit horrifying.

Two training rooms, one hallway, and the north-east corner of the dining hall had all fallen to his wrath.

He was temperamental ~~at least moreso than usual~~ , easy to irritate and even more likely to fall into lightsaber filled fits. Two separate Captains had already come begging. _Please just forgive him, please stop this madness._

But you were as stubborn as he, and piling costs of destruction or otherwise, you weren’t going to reclaim your spot as _#1 Amiga_ until he **apologized**.

You weren’t even that distressed over the loss of your hawk-bat, not really. Frederick had been nice and all, but he had also been a bit mean. He definitely hadn’t been a creature that could sleep peacefully curled up on your pillow at night. And certainly he never would have survived (let alone happily) on the frozen wasteland of Illum. He was a tropical creature, and it wouldn’t have been fair to him. But like with your ire over the whole Hux-Millicent situation, this was more about the _principle_.

Kylo Ren had _upset_ you. Clearly. And then _refused_ to atone. No, you were not expecting him to fall to his knees in prostration and beg forgiveness ~~you believed in miracles on occasion, but you weren’t _delusional_~~ _._ But if he was planning on you crawling back to his side, then you wanted at least a semi-sincere “I’m sorry for slicing your hawk-bat in half.”

You dumped the remainder of your dinner down the trash shoot with a neat little flourish.

Stormtroopers and generic workers alike were puttering around like nervous little bees—under some order or other of a distressed fuckboy.  The ginger general seemed to be wound far too tightly and he was snapping almost as easily as his emo archenemy. Though you supposed that was to be expected, what with the murder princess tearing apart the temple.

You wondered idly how long you could keep this whole ‘silent treatment’ thing going before you were flat out ordered to reunite with your bestest buddy. If only to spare the lives of everyone else in the immediate vicinity.

The door to your chambers slid open with a near-silent hiss and you almost tripped over your feet as you came crashing to a halt.  

A pair of big ol’ amber eyes blinked up at you from where the owner of said eyes was curled adorably atop your blankets.

**_Well._ ** _And you here you’d thought all of Hux’s pacing and fretting was in concern for the fate of his soldiers._

Millicent mewed, clearly quite confused about where she was and how she’d gotten there.

You sighed, a smug little grin twitching at the corners of your lips as you scooped the adorable tabby cat into your arms.

You supposed this counted as a decent enough apology.

.

.

.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You better not kick in your sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but this chapter is like 20 pages (hot damn, it was supposed to be a DRABBLE OKAY) so... yeah... Hope that makes up for it :p

You only managed to keep Millicent locked away in your room for a little over two days before your ~~lack of proper litter box~~ guilt got the better of you and you carted the cat back to her rightful owner.

You’d never seen Hux so grateful. Or nice. Or really with any excess of positive emotion. You played the fool—spinning a fallacy of finding the feline trapped, helpless, in a collapsed cave during an evening stroll. He clearly didn’t believe you, but the ginger was so ecstatic to have his precious kitten back that rather than call you out on your lie, he pulled you into a quick, one-armed embrace and said “ _thank you_ ” in the most sincere voice you may have ever heard.

Not gonna lie—you may have seen some stars.

Perhaps you and the fuckboy could live on in peace. Maybe never friends, but certainly no longer enemies.

Speaking of friends, the whole _stealing Hux’s cat_ thing had nicely smothered your irritation with your favorite Knight of Ren. It had been a rather fluffy thing for him to do, and you understood how hard it must have been for him—knowing that he was doing something so adorable. He had never flat out apologized with _words_ , but to be fair, you weren’t quite sure he remembered how. So even though you’d never gotten that desired “I’m sorry for slicing your hawk-bat in half,” you had forgiven him. Life had fallen back into its usual monotony and the First Order’s base was safe once more from the terrible, rampaging, bucket.

.

.

.

You had developed a kind of routine.

In the mornings, Kylo Ren would join you and Olin in the dining hall. There was never any food in front of him and sometimes you wondered what exactly the point was of accompanying you for breakfast if he was already taking his meals somewhere else. After the consumption of your subpar cuisine and subsequent chitchat, he’d walk side by side with you to training with Snoke. And after that he’d trail you right on back to your quarters. The first time, you’d unintentionally slammed the door in his face ~~how were you supposed to _know_ that he’d wanted to come inside? He wasn’t very vocal about these things~~. From then on out you learned to wait for him to follow in behind you. More often than not he’d swipe a book from your stockpile and sit idly, reading silently for hours in your favorite chair until it was time for your late night mind meld adventures. Other times he brought his ‘work’ with him. You still couldn’t see how your input was very useful when it came to military strategy and heist-planning, but he demanded your assessments nonetheless. It was nice to be included you supposed. Even if it was with deciding which city to incinerate that week.  

On the second or third day you had returned to Snoke’s training sessions, you caught the Supreme Leader’s gaze. More accurately, you snagged yourself on his forehead, because those hauntingly pale blue eyes were locked further down—on the Kyber Crystal tied around your neck. His lips had curled up just the teensiest bit around the edges and you frowned, subconsciously tucking the scraggly necklace away behind the folds of your cloak.

Even with Supreme Leader Snoke’s strange scrutiny and Hux’s occasional ~~and terrible~~ attempts at small talk, you really did enjoy your days—no matter how repetitive.  

Then the Resistance had to go and attack one of the First Order’s battalions and muck up your whole schedule.

The infirmary was neither properly prepared nor staffed for the sudden influx of upwards of three hundred patients—many of whom were in critical condition. So under express order of General Hux, you were temporarily reassigned as head Doctor and sequestered away in the med ward, much to the displeasure of a certain murderous lampshade.

Part of it felt nice to be back. Being able to reclaim your position of power (even if only for a week or so) was lovely. You had missed being able to dole out your whim like sweets to younglings. The constant stress of controlling dozens upon dozens of other doctors and technicians, who answered to you and only you, was wonderful. Refreshing, even. Don’t get me wrong, you quite enjoyed being Kylo Ren’s partner in crime, but here, _you_ were the big bad. It certainly helped bolster your ego back to where it had once been before Snoke’s orders had stolen you away.

Once the more drastic injuries had been personally addressed and you’d rounded on each of your 279 patients at least once (a tedious process that took a solid six days), you had a bit of precious time to relax. The worst was over and all that remained were the hourly treatments—most of which could be carried out by nurses and assistants. It was nice to kick up your feet and take the time to sip leisurely at your tea rather than gulp it down all in one go in hopes you’d manage to retain some of the caffeine.

“If you had to choose between eating a Tauntaun raw or living with Ewoks for a whole month which would it be?”

Your replacement was a queer sort of person.

You licked a stray drop of tea from your lower lip. “The Tauntaun, obviously. Am I allowed some kind of sauce?”

She pondered on that. “I guess so.”

“Then definitely the Tauntaun.”

While out in the open Miss Sansa Turpt seemed to be a perpetually nervous little bird, she was, to your surprise, actually quite competent. And though she spluttered a bit trying to get the words off her tongue, she was very vocal and loved that damned ‘would you rather’ game more than life itself. She’d cycled through all of the usual situations— _if you were stranded on a deserted planet, if you had to kill someone, if you were trapped in a beast’s stomach, etc, etc._ Fun stuff.

“I would have gone with the Ewoks,” another doctor added from his place across from you, mouth full of half-chewed pasta. “They can’t be _that_ bad.”

You shrugged. “I’m never opposed to sampling new cuisine.”

“Oh, please,” a nurse piped in. “I remember when you were in charge back on Starkiller. Every morning you’d come in whining about how awful the food was, and how the cooks were intentionally instigating eating disorders.”

“That’s _old_ food.” Plus, that oatmeal was a damn _atrocity._

“Whatever you say.”

“Okay, okay. Next one,” your replacement tittered. “You know those fairy tales? Where the prince has to kiss the princess to save her from some spell or other?”

You all nodded.

“Well, what if it was like that. You’re stuck in this fairy tale and he’s under a curse, and you—”

You arched a brow. “He?”

“Lord Ren,” she whispered conspiratorially. “If you had to kiss _Kylo Ren_ to save his life would you?

Your fellows all blanched in horror and Miss Sansa kept on snorting and sniggering under her breath—hands pressed over her grin in a vain attempt to maintain her composure, as if her mirth wasn’t seeping straight through her fingers.

You blinked, confused. “Of course I would.”

They turned on you as if you’d just announced you were Darth Vader incarnate.

Sansa’s smile fell and her brow furrowed. “Would you really?”

“Would you _not_ kiss someone to _save their **life**_ **?** ”

She gaped at you for a moment much like a fish in a bowl. _Clearly_ she hadn’t been expecting that. But then she readjusted herself and fired off—

“Would you kiss him for an undercover mission?”

You pondered over that scene for a moment, trying to imagine where that would _ever_ be necessary.

“Sure.”

“What if he ordered you?”

You snorted. **_Kylo Ren_** was _not_ about to go _asking_ you to _kiss_ him. Let alone **_order_** you. “Why not.”

“Would you kiss him if you got a free muffin out of it?”

“Is that even a question?”

At this she seemed to run out of scenarios. She chewed thoughtfully at her lower lip and you noticed that most of the other staff was slowly inching away from where you sat—as if announcing your lack of opposition to locking lips with the dark menace was some sort of _transmittable disease_.

You slurped your tea and went back to sorting through treatment sheets.

.

.

.

One of the Stormtrooper Captains showed up a few hours after that to retrieve you. Your presence in the infirmary was no longer an absolute necessity, and apparently the higher ups thought it had officially reached the point where you’d be saving more lives if you were back at Kylo Ren’s side.  

When they’d carted your butt to the med ward almost a week ago, you had thought that perhaps after being given a taste of your old life you would be overwhelmed with want to return to it.

Instead, you felt oddly enlightened. About _what_ you weren’t quite sure.

But it was nice to take your usual seat at the breakfast table, to make yourself comfortable on your favorite ledge while your bucket head trained with Snoke. Even the cold stone floor of the cave felt more inviting than usual when you settled yourself in for midnight mind madness.

And if the poor, neglected, lampshade hovered over you even more than usual, well, you could hardly blame him. You would have missed yourself too.

.

.

.

You weren’t one for bad dreams.

To you, all dreams were simply an adventure—a story. And usually quite interesting stories at that. Your subconscious had a fantastic screenwriter. Sure, some could be scary, or sad, or quite embarrassing, but they were _stories_. All good stories bore conflict and emotional turmoil. And very rarely did they manage to upset you.

Kylo Ren on the other hand was plagued with nightmares.

Like any average Joe, your emo Barbie had his good and bad mornings. On the days where he was a bit more homicidal than usual you’d always just assumed he hadn’t gotten the recommended eight hours of shut eye. You’d never bothered to consider _why_ the dark terror may not have been sleeping peacefully through the night, and he certainly never bothered to share that tidbit of information with you. So you let it go. His deepest thoughts and personal strife was none of your business.

But you were starting to worry.

And if _you_ were actively worried over someone, then that meant there was _truly_ a cause for concern.

The past three days had been altogether unpleasant.

It had reached the point where he was even being short with _you_ —snarling and snapping like an angry dog whenever your thoughts took a particularly strange or vibrant turn, or even over something as simple as when you stopped to say hello to a very amused General Hux. He paced and fretted and tore through training rooms like a hurricane. It had escalated enough that you were almost a bit nervous to be near him.

You tried to help, really you did.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is _wrong_.”

“Because it _seems_ like something’s wrong.”

“ _Nothing_ is _wrong._ ”

“Because you know you can talk to me if it is.”

“ ** _NOTHING_** is **_WRONG_** _with me!_ ”

His lightsaber had promptly torn a massive chunk out of the wall from beside your head and that had been the end of that conversation.

You shuffled a bit under your covers, puzzling and puzzling.  You had found a lovely book depicting the struggles of people who were not aware that they had died, and it came complete with a lengthy set of instructions on how to figure out if you _yourself_ had passed without your knowledge. Quite interesting, if not a bit scary. ~~Were you dead? Who knew. Perhaps you had defied all known laws of the Jedi and become a Force ghost.~~ Though this glorious tome had been open and resting in your hands for the better part of an hour now, you hadn’t been able to get past the first chapter—far too caught up trying to deduce just what on _Earth_ had gotten into your bestest pal.

You placed the book on your nightstand with a sigh and flicked off the light. It was late— _very_ late. And if you wanted to be able to pull together any semblance of civility in the morning, then you really ought to—

The door to your quarters hissed and slid open.

Your lips parted, ready to unleash the ugliest of hairsplitting screams, and you moved to pelt your novel at the trespasser, but…

He didn’t say anything—just stood awkwardly in the threshold for a moment or two before stomping forward with an irritated huff. Not metallic, just a regular old huff. No helmet in sight. That was… strange. The door had slid closed behind him and taken the light with it, but you could still make out the majority of the Knight, even though it seemed like he was trying his hardest to stay hidden away in the shadows. His dark hair was mused and the familiar black cloak was notably absent, like he’d been all snuggled up and relaxed in his bed.

Without a word Kylo Ren climbed into _your_ bed, stole a ~~fairly conservative~~ far too large portion of the blankets and settled himself in like he owned the place.

You stared down at occupant numero dos of your mattress, slack jawed and mind blank.

_What in the name of all the holy fucking—_

“ _Don’t_ say anything,” he snapped, stubbornly keeping his back to you.  

Well _pardon_ your curiosity. It’s not like he’d shown up out of the blue after growling at you for days on end, and just hopped on in to _bed_ with you _without an invitation_. 

“Just…” he sighed, irritated. “You said if I needed you, you would listen.”

Yes. _Listen._

This was leaps and _bounds_ above lending a _friendly ear_ —

“ _Enough_.” You could see him rubbing his knuckles into his temples, face half-burrowed into one of your pillows. “I’m tired enough as it is without your _rambling_.”

You paused then—retort falling flat before you had even thought to let it near your tongue.

 _Kylo Ren was exhausted_. He was exhausted and unhappy and clearly bothered by something enough that he was willing to hide under your covers to escape it. And that meant that this _‘something’_ was probably absolutely terrifying. Part of you wanted to demand he explain himself—that he give you _something_ to work with here. But the other, softer, part of your conscious, suggested you let him be. At least for now. Corner him when he was well again. Injured animals were much more likely to bite back if you prodded them.

So you sighed and curled up onto your side.

 _Fine_. He could stay.

“You better not kick in your sleep.”

He yanked sharply on the blankets and you rolled your eyes, pulling the sheets up to your chin and burrowing into the soft fabric.

.

.

.

He was gone by the time you managed to peal your face blearily from the pillows the next morning.

You wondered briefly if perhaps it had all been some kind of feverish dream, but that would require the aforementioned fever, and surely even _your_ brain couldn’t hack up something _that_ strange. When you shifted around, trying to will your muscles out of hibernation, your nose snuffed into the extra pillows and you paused. It wasn’t _very_ noticeable, but there was something—just a hint of a lingering scent that definitely had not come from _you_. Like the remnants of an unfamiliar shampoo. Or a different detergent.

_Ha._

You _knew_ you weren’t crazy.

When the evil bucket joined you for breakfast, there was a bit less slump to his shoulders and he didn’t even attempt to suffocate the stormtrooper who tripped with a _clang_ and sent oat mush flying all over the place. Perhaps this is what one could call ‘progress.’

That night you waited up a bit, eyes locked on the door, expectant.

Just when you gave up and twisted to flick off the lights—certain that your impromptu guest had been a one-night fluke—the metal panels hissed and slid apart.

The lethargic Knight stared you down hard, eyes narrowed darkly and clearly _daring_ you to judge him.

Instead, you pointedly shuffled over to make room for him and reached out to dull the lights.

After a moment of curious hesitation, he climbed in and made himself comfortable beneath the covers—keeping a solid foot and a half away from you all the while. Which you really found quite stupid because normally he had _zero_ qualms about personal space, and what made being in a bed any different? You sighed, sleepy, and cuddled into your portion of the blankets.

He was stiff and silent for a moment or two before piping in, terse, “No complaints tonight?”

You shrugged. “If it helps you sleep, it helps you sleep.”

_Besides. This was the sort of thing that friends did for each other, right?_

It was too dark to really see, but you could imagine he was arching a brow in skepticism. “Is it really?”

Well, you’d never actually had what could be considered a ‘close’ friend before ~~sad, yes, you were aware~~ so you weren’t _entirely_ positive about that. But surely friends did whatever they could to aid one another. And if he was having trouble sleeping, then it was your duty to do whatever you could to help. Both as a companion and as his doctor.

He snorted but said no more.

.

.

.

Again, the not-so-mysterious toddler had disappeared by the time you woke.

You weren’t sure if you should be offended. Was the idea of waking up next to you _really_ that terrible? ~~Well… yes. It probably was. You had atrocious bed head. And your morning breath was nothing to brag about either.~~

Curiously, you stuck your nose into the pillows. There was that smell again. Part of you wanted to label it sandalwood. Another part reminded you that you didn’t actually know what sandalwood smelled like. Clean, maybe? Was that a good word for it…?

The following night passed in a manner that was very much the same as the last. And so did the one after that. And the one after _that._ You were beginning to wonder if you should just extend a permanent invitation to your quarters.

By the end of the first week, one of the other Knights of Ren, a woman whose name you could not recall for the life of you ~~had you ever even actually been introduced though? So were you _really_ at fault here?~~ approached you in line for breakfast.

"What are you giving Kylo Ren?"

You paused mid-muffin grab.

"Pardon?"

"He's been better lately," she supplied, blunt but polite. "In preparation for the next mission, we’ve been training as a group in the early mornings," _well, that explained why he had always vanished by the time you managed to haul your ass out of bed_ , "and as of late, he's more focused, more efficient and put together. I asked about it and he mentioned a new treatment. So," she hummed, "what are you giving him?"

 _A warm bed. Warmer blankets. The sheer gift of your presence. But_ you couldn't exactly _say_ that. "Does it matter?" You diverted. "Is it really such an improvement?"

She gave you a look—the one you saw practically every day from at least one person or other, the one that said quite snootily, _are you **really** so blind?_

So you sighed and spread your palms helplessly. "Folic Acid. Great for mood swings and hormone regulation."

"Isn't that for pregnant women?"

 _Well... yes._ You shrugged. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

The unnamed Knight left you to your provisional prowling after that, and more importantly to your mulling over this ‘next mission’ that she had mentioned. You twirled your Kyber Crystal idly at your throat. If this involved the Knights of Ren, surely it had to be important. And potentially super-duper fun.

.

.

.

Surprise, surprise—Kylo Ren was opposed to you accompanying his merry band of assassins on active field duty. _Again_.

Even though you’d _more_ than proved yourself the first time around. Even though the _second time around_ you adopted a pissy hawk-bat in retaliation to your confinement—a pet which had apparently tried to maul him. **Nope.** No matter what you attempted, you just couldn’t seem to get it through that reinforced skull of his that _you were not a liability_.

“I don’t see you as a liability.”

You wanted to huff and turn your nose up at him, but you were far too tired and far too irritable to waste something as precious as _movement_ on the likes of _him._

“It is for your _safety_ ,” he repeated. _Again_. As if he had fooled himself into thinking you cared about something as silly as your wellbeing over the chance to go exploring. _Again._

But then, your Cilare guide arrived and demanded in broken English that no one was to be left behind. Language barrier or otherwise, it was clear that you weren’t trusted. And imagine that: _you_ —a silly little doctor, and now also apparently a criminal mastermind entirely worthy of the death glare boring into your skull. So despite Kylo’s obvious distaste, you scampered smugly along behind him.

You observed your surroundings out of the corner of your eye. Snoke intended to establish another settlement on this barren planet for ease of access to the Resistance’s own outposts, and that made plenty of sense. But that didn’t make this drab hunk of rock any less ugly. The dry dirt crunched unpleasantly beneath your boots and the sparse clouds overhead did little to mask the equally brown sky.

The Knights were spread around in loose formation and a gaggle of Stormtroopers trailed behind, weapons in hand and looking very much ready to jump out of their skins.

There was something… _not right_ , about your tour guide. Perhaps it was your inherent distrust of creatures wielding large, blood-stained, axes, or maybe it was something about the set of his brow. The Cilare were much like humans, but with much more bulk and these beady little yellow eyes whose hue matched their thick skin almost too perfectly.

It all happened so quickly you weren’t quite sure when the silence ended and the chaos began.

Your ragtag platoon was under ambush by Cilare and Resistance troops alike. The Stormtroopers moved as if to surround ~~the weakest link~~ you, but two were picked off and the others scattered to try and make up for the lost manpower. You spun left and right, tripping over downed attackers and uneven terrain alike. You had no armor, no protection, and blaster fire was pouring down over your head like some kind of hellish rain storm straight from the depths of the void.

_And the fucking emo toddler **had** **never given you your gun back**.  _

You twirled and sidestepped and straight up sashayed your way through the anarchy. _Left-left- **that** is a sword-right-left-right-holy puck gun gun **gun** -right-right—_

There was a knife at your throat for hardly a second before that familiar growl roared through your ears and your assailant’s arm was swiftly and sharply removed from his shoulder with a hiss and scream of red plasma.

“ ** _Go_**.”

_Go **where** exactly?_

You knelt down and pried the victim’s still twitching fingers ~~ew~~ from his pistol. Then you were up again and firing quick shots into the skull of a fighter who’d been ready to tear into your _own_ cranium. The crackling crimson blade arched over your head to slice into enemy after enemy.

“ _Just **go!** ”_

Did he have some fantastical, Force Super Sight that allowed him to pick out a mystical escape route somewhere amidst all this fuckery? Because all _you_ could see was wave upon wave of bad guys ~~good guys?~~ swarming the field. And even if you _did_ have some magical place to run to, what if something _happened?_ What if ~~he~~ someone _needed_ you? Cowardice was all well and good when you were the only party affected, but all of the other Knights of Ren were here too. What if your emo Barbie needed his doctor?

You allowed yourself a moment of pride amidst all the mass shooting and killing ~~look at you, all _loyal_ and _courageous_ ~~ and then—

 **_Bam_ ** **.**

Pain. Heady and hot and so, so strong. Straight through your right thigh and burning all the way down. You stumbled and gasped and tried your hardest to diagnose yourself without falling flat on your face or into the line of fire.

Adductor _._ **_No_.** If that had been slit, then your femoral artery was gone too. _And seeing as you weren’t bleeding out_ … You stumbled and shot off _—one, two, three—_ Rectus femoris? Maybe? You could live with that. Big, pretty necessary, but easy enough to repair. You stumbled again and then—ah— _yep_ — _there_ was the blood loss—

**_Bam number two._ **

_Shoulder? Clavicle?_ You couldn’t tell.

More stumbling, more mindless shooting. This was okay. You could tolerate—

**_Bam number three._ **

Well, at least—

**_Bam number four._ **

**_Bam number five._ **

_Nope._ That was it. You had officially surpassed your limit of ‘times I can be shot and be alive at the same time.’ Suddenly you understood what all those poor Stormtroopers went through. You were gone. _Adios. Farewell. Adieu to all._ Except you weren’t gone _quite_ yet. You were on the ground sure, and that was definitely a nice cocktail of blood and mud in your mouth, but there were still a few stuttering breaths moving in through your nostrils and coming out in choked bursts from between your lips. And that was sort of a good sign, at least. You inhaled slow, mentally mapping the air flow through your chest. **_Ouch_**. Broken ribs then. Maybe a bruised lung. Some tearing somewhere most definitely—

Oh, what did cataloguing your battle scars _matter_ if you were _dead_.

Then, caught halfway between reality and sweet, sweet, delusion, you remembered that lovely book of yours about death and dying and began rattling off the steps, just to affirm things.

Just when you were about to finish and confirm once and for all that you had, in fact, passed on, a Resistance officer tripped over your poor butt and landed face first in a puddle of blood by your abdomen.  

And oh, _you felt it._

So… alive?

But unmoving. You twitched. **_Correction_** _._ _Semi_ -moveable. Just… not very far. Or in any useful fashion.

Part of you considered calling out to your poor bucket. But that could be distracting. And distracting a warrior in the midst of battle was a no-no that even someone as uncultured as _you_ was familiar with. So you just lay there—wincing every once in a while whenever someone came along and stepped on you. Surely it had only been a minute or two, but it felt like _ages_. And you were so bored at this point you kind of just wished your subconscious would take over and knock you out already so that you wouldn’t have to spend the rest of your life staring at _dirt_.

But then, the ground was swaying and swirling beneath you and you wondered deliriously if vomiting half-digested chunks of banana-nut muffin fell under proper battle etiquette. Except— _ah_ —that wasn’t the _ground_ , those were _arms_. And it wasn’t blood roaring in your ears so much as a familiar, crackling saber. 

And of course, now that you were free from the shackles of immobility and ennui, your brain took it upon itself to send all kinds of black fuzz to your eyes and choke you into unconsciousness.

.

.

.

There was a cat on your calf, an unfamiliar blanket around your shoulders, and a minute or two of wonder as you debated if you had died and gone to Heaven. _Were_ you in Heaven? Millicent was curled up snugly against your leg and you were so wonderfully warm, so it seemed likely.

But then again, you didn’t seem much like a person destined for the high-end of the afterlife.

And surely being dead didn’t come with so much pain. And _surely_ the Gods were not so cruel to incorporate _Hux_ into your promise land. You shifted and winced with an unattractive grunt. The ginger General started from his place across from you and his mouth fell open in surprise.

_“You’re awake.”_

The words barely had time to tumble from his lips before a hoard of doctors and nurses descended on your poor soul.

You were far too drugged to understand the majority of what they were spouting at you, so you sat silently and let them prod and inject and inspect. You took the time to drag your gaze sluggishly around the room. Part of you twisted up in disappointment when no matter how many times you looked, you couldn’t pick out your favorite Knight amid the chaos.

Once things were settled, medicine administered, and bandages changed, Hux moved back to your side and claimed the empty seat beside your bed.

“I brought you Millicent,” he offered, stiff.

You could do little else but run your fingers back and forth over her fluffy head, but the feline seemed more than pleased with the ministrations.  You offered him the best smile you could.

“Thanks.” You stared up at the ceiling, waiting for him to say something else. But he was silent, just sitting there awkwardly as you hoarded his cat’s affections like a dragon to gold. “How long was I unconscious?”

“They put you under when your group returned. You came out of surgery a few hours ago.”

You gawked, horrified. “They didn’t—”

“ _No_ robotics,” Hux scoffed. “As specified in all of your treatment forms. How did you word it? _Death before prosthetics_?”

“Mechanization,” you corrected. “Robots are lovely and all, and they certainly have their uses, but none of that _metal **trash** _ is going into my body.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

You pushed your fingers through Millicent’s fur. “Not that I don’t appreciate your cat, but why are you here?”

He shifted, uncomfortable. “Orders.”

“ _Orders?_ From _who_?”

“Snoke.”

“ _Snoke?_ ”

“Are you going to repeat _everything_ I say?”

You frowned, irate and confused. If only your bucket was here… Maybe it was the drugs, or the fact that he’d in all likelihood saved your life, or maybe it was the drugs, but you _missed_ him. So you turned to the Ginger with your biggest, saddest, eyes and asked—

“Where’s Kylo?”

More stiff squirming. “Ren was sent back to Vonak to complete the mission.”

 _~~Without **you?**~~ _ _But **why?**_

“The Supreme Leader ordered that we retake the planet, and with Ren as he was, there was a strong chance that we would be able to—”

“ _As he was_?” you cut in. “And he was _what_ exactly? Murderous? Irritated? _Mopey_? Nothing out of the ordinary there.” All those gosh darn sedatives were loosening your tongue. Hux looked half annoyed, half amused, and you were certain he’d remember your babbling for future blackmail.

“Do you know how the Dark Side of the Force works, doctor?”

_No._

“As much as the next person.” You blinked, slow. The narcotics flooding your veins seemed to tug incessantly at your consciousness and you weren’t sure how long you could keep this conversation going.

Hux leaned over to scoop Millicent up into his arms. “Then there’s little point explaining it. You look exhausted—go back to sleep, doctor.”

But you didn’t _want_ to sleep. You _wanted_ to know why your friend had been shipped back off to that stupid dust ball before you’d even managed to claw your way back to the world of the living. You _wanted_ to climb out of this uncomfortable bed and march to Snoke’s chambers, demanding answers. You _wanted_ Hux to give you back his cat. But by this point the drugs were roaring strong and you were fighting just to keep your eyes open, let alone form coherent _words_. With a defeated sigh you slid back into unconsciousness.  

.

.

.

You were released from the infirmary within the week.

Yes, you should probably have stayed a few days more just to be on the safe side, but the doctors and assistants had been _more than_ happy to cast aside the bitchy medic who did nothing but _whine, whine, whine_ and torment the staff because “ ** _I_** _could have treated these wounds better, you turd munchers.”_

Instead of being confined to the jagged rock that was your hospital bed, you were instead imprisoned in your much more _comfortable_ bed within your own quarters. A nurse visited you every few hours to pump you full of drugs and clean your wounds, but otherwise you were an independent woman. You read good books and ate ~~slightly better than usual~~ good food and tried your very best to ignore the fact that you _had_ almost died out there.

Because you were sequestered away in your fluffy cocoon of a bed, you weren’t aware that the Knights had returned until Kylo Ren was beating down your door and tearing into your room. You beamed dopily and pulled your arm out from beneath layers upon layers of insolation to wave hello.

 _Oh thank goodness._ He was alright—

“ _What did you think you were **doing?!**_ ”

Your hand fell and you gawked at him stupidly, mind trying its absolute hardest to churn out an even halfway coherent reply. Instead—

“…pardon?”

He stormed forward, hair wild and dark eyes wilder. “You could have gotten yourself _killed_. You were dead! I _felt_ it!”

But you weren’t _dead_. You were here, tangible, and very much alive. You had survived being lanced through with blaster fire _five whole times_ , and that was damn impressive, thank you very much.

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to be shot,” you finally managed to splutter out.

He continued on, unbidden. “I told you to leave!”

“Where was I supposed to go?!”

“And on top of all that _sheer stupidity_ , you refused _treatment_ —”

“—I did not _**refuse** _ treatment—”

“You would have!” he roared. “ _Death before mechanization_ ,” he sneered. “That’s what you have in your file. Do you even understand the _risks_ of that? Do you _know_ what would have happened if you had _needed_ it?”

“Of course I understand,” you frowned. “I may not be _that_ old, but I’ve been doing this whole ‘medicine’ thing for a while and I _know_ the risks—”

“Then _act_ like it!”

“It’s my choice,” you snapped, indignant. “I _understand_ what it means, and I decided a long time ago that I—”

“It’s not your decision to make anymore!”

“Well too bad, because I _made_ it and I’m not going to _change_ it because _you’re_ throwing a tantrum!”

His hand twitched to his side and his sheathed saber. “I could make you.”

You scoffed. “You could try.”

His lips twitched and twisted. “I could make _them_ —all the other _doctors_ who actually have a _sense_ of _reason_. If it came down to it, I _would_.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“I’m trying to save your life!”

“But I’m not _dead!_ ” you wailed, collapsing back into your pillows. You rubbed your hands into your eyes with a shuddering sigh and the wound spanning your shoulder screamed in protest. “And to think I was _upset_ you were gone. But, _no,_ just pop on back in whenever you feel like it and pick fights with the invalid.”

At that he seemed to hesitate. “You’re still injured.”

You gestured to your half-singed body and plethora of bandages with an overdramatic flourish.

His scowl contorted itself into something more annoyed and less murderous. “What are you doing in here then? _Alone?_ ”

“I’m ‘obnoxious.’” You air-quoted, closing your eyes with a heavy sigh. “Besides, I didn’t like being stuck in the infirmary any more than you did, and _you_ had a much more intimate brush with mortality.” That didn’t seem to placate him ~~at all~~ much, so you gestured to the small pharmacy stacked up in the corner. “I have a nurse that comes and checks on me. It’s fine.”

Still, he looked quite unhappy. ~~Was he ever happy though? Perhaps that made it an unfair comparison.~~ While you were more than a bit _miffed_ over his ranting, the intricate cocktail of drugs pumping through your blood was making it difficult to keep a firm grasp on that rage. It slid through your fingers like sand, no matter how hard you tried to keep that vengeful fire burning strong. So rather than snarl and demand he leave, you just burrowed back in to your blanket fortress with a wince.

 “If you’re so _worried_ about me being left alone, maybe _you_ should stay.”

It had been a joke. Sort of. If anything, you expected him to scoff and storm back out at the implication that he was ‘worried’ over the likes of _you_ ~~though after that massive fucking tantrum, he clearly _was_~~ or on the opposite spectrum, maybe the angry emo would swipe a book and make himself comfortable in your chair and spend the night watching over your sore ass.

You were _not_ expecting your mattress to dip as his weight was added to yours, and you _definitely_ were not expecting the dark terror to carefully and almost hesitantly work his way into your cocoon until his chest was pressed firm against your back and his arms were maneuvered _just-so_ so that he could hold you close without agitating your wounds. He burrowed his face into the crook of your neck and you sneezed when his hair brushed your nose.

“When does your nurse come?”

You could literally _feel_ the words as they moved through his chest and out his mouth—a soft rumble against your skin.

You shrugged. “Ten, fifteen minutes maybe.”

You expected him to grumble and begin immediately working on extraditing himself, but instead Kylo Ren only pushed himself closer and tightened his hold.

Just when you were about to drift off, he shifted and said quietly—

“You’re not allowed to die.” Then, firmer, “Do you understand?”

You sighed, exasperated, and snuggled further into your pillow.

“Yes, sir.”

.

.

.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You would pace it off but your leg hurt too much. You could try and rationalize it but your brain had clocked out ages ago.
> 
> You had to just… let it be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that Kylo Ren is totally that guy where if you put on Taylor Swift he bitches and bitches about how awful it is and how it's not 'real music' but after a few minutes you see him humming along to 'Shake It Off' under his breath. yep.

If you had known that almost dying would come with such stellar treatment, you would have made it a point to get shot more often.

Not _everyone_ who had tangoed on the edge of their grave received so much coddling ~~particularly all those poor Stormtroopers who were picked off by the shipful and replaced with just as much thought, the poor dears~~. But you were _special_. Oddly enough. And, man, if you weren’t playing it up.

Kylo Ren had returned from Vonak, hugely successful. And since his reappearance, everyone from doctors to cooks to the radar technicians bustled about doing everything and anything they could to make sure you were happy. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he’d Force-choked the medic who had let you out of the infirmary before your time. Or the destruction of the eastern hall after your crutches snagged on an uneven patch of rock and sent you tumbling to the ground—tearing open your stitches and confining you back to the med ward for a further two days. Or maybe they were just being really nice for the sake of the niceness in itself. ~~Ha, who were you kidding.~~

Either way, you were loving it.

Your Snoke-sessions were put on halt for the time being and Ren refused to bother your mind when your body was already in such a state of disarray, so you had an abundance of free time to hobble around the base.

Your crutches were these unpleasant, steel, things that looked about as happy as Hux after a meeting with your favorite emo. You’d spent an afternoon wrapping them in bright bandages in hopes of giving them a bit of character, but alas, they were still just as gloomy. If not a lot more ugly. But you hobbled around on them proudly nonetheless. It only took Kylo about three hours to stop bitching about the neon orange. You had reminded him firmly that until your muscle was properly healed (it had indeed been your Rectus Femoris, you just _knew_ it), you really needed to keep your weight off it. Unless he wanted it to _never_ heal, and for that damn limp of yours to become your _permanent_ gait. After that there was no more whining about your neon, cripple-sticks.

Including your torn thigh muscles, in total you’d amassed two broken ribs, five first degree blaster-burns, a dislocated shoulder, a hefty amount of damage to your lower organs, and a whole lotta’ _ouch_.

Well, if nothing else, you’d certainly have some great stories to pass along to the next generation. But until that day came—

“You need to eat.”

You would never _make it_ to that day because you were going to _explode_ and _die_.

“I did eat.”

“Not recently.”

“But I’m not _hungry_.”

“You need nourishment if you’re going to get better.”

You slurped your juice loudly and pointedly.

“Something _solid_.”

_What was he, your mother?_

“You’re a doctor,” the bucket snapped. “You’re supposed to _know_ all of this. Or are you really that incompetent?”

You’d learned over the past few days that it was best to view his insults as declarations of affection rather than the sharp barbs he most likely intended them to be. You nibbled on the straw sticking out from your cup.

“Knowing and acting upon that knowledge are two entirely different concepts.”

He shoved the bowl of steaming soup back into your hands with a long look that sent your mind buzzing and stomach jumping into all kinds of strange summersaults.

“ _Eat_.”

 _Nu-uh_ was he pulling any of that Jedi-mind-bullshit on you. “Aren’t you late for school or something?”

His lips twisted up in annoyance and he snatched his helmet from its place perched on your nightstand. Because he _was_ running late. And though Snoke seemed to have no problems with his student spending every waking ~~and not so waking~~ second of his free time at your side, the Supreme Leader had little sympathy for tardiness.

“I’ll be back later.” The mask slid into place over his mouth and his voice choked off into that familiar, metallic, garble. “And I expect _that_ —” _cue pointed glower at le soup_ “—to be gone.”

When he was safely out of your quarters, you limped to the bathroom and poured the soup into the toilet. It was some horrible concoction of lean meats and custards with entirely no fat and no flavor. It was supposed to be ‘easy on your stomach,’ but it was certainly a chore getting it past your taste buds. And on top of it all, you _really weren’t hungry_.

Most patients _lost_ weight under treatment, not _gained_ it. But Kylo Ren had terrorized the kitchens into working day in and out to provide you with the best ‘get better’ foods out there. And it was _terrible_. _Eat this, eat that_. It was never ending. Your poor intestines could only handle so much at a time.

Later that afternoon, Captain Phasma arrived alongside your nurse-of-the-day.

It was a tedious thing—dragging the chrome dome away from her cadets three times a day for your check-ins. But the staff only seemed to feel safe venturing into your quarters with the Captain there to accompany them, and you weren’t ‘allowed’ out of your room or into the infirmary without Kylo Ren there to catch you if your crutches malfunctioned. So Phasma it was.

The first of the nurses had been Force-tossed clear from the room after walking in on you and the dark menace all huddled up like peas in a pod beneath your blankets. Then, of course, there was that whole ‘suffocating’ thing with that one doctor. It wasn’t that you didn’t _understand_ their apprehension, but… Well… The more you thought on it, there really was no ‘but.’

Nurse of name unknown began the usual check-up-bandage-change process and you used the time to bitch to Phasma.

“—would it be such a problem to let me walk around a bit? I mean, I’m not a _complete_ invalid.”

Helmet or otherwise, you knew an eye roll when you saw it.                         

You sighed and flopped back into your pillows. “Okay, okay. Point taken.”

The Captain took a moment to look over your file, seeming only half-interested. Not that you blamed her. Most of it had to be nothing but medical hoo-haw and prescription notes.

The nurse pressed a hand to your side, checking your ribs. “How are you feeling?”

You shrugged. “Pretty tender. But on the mend overall, I think.” They wouldn’t let you see any of the x-rays or reports ~~those dicks~~ , so there was no way for you to know for sure.

“Lord Ren seems to think you’re in danger of keeling over any day now,” Phasma piped in. You had the very distinct feeling that she was watching you out of the corner of her eye, trying to pick apart your reaction.

“I don’t know about _‘keeling over,’_ ” you hummed, then, with an annoyed grunt, “but he does seem to think I feel cold or hungry _all the time_.”

You assumed that was it. You expected no more than an acknowledging tilt of the head or something of the like.

“Kylo Ren is a warrior,” she said instead, much to your surprise. “On the field, soldiers watch out for one another. While you may no longer be in battle, you’re still his comrade, and you were injured under his care. He failed at keeping you safe and he can’t patch you up, so making sure that you’re well fed and comfortable may be the only way he has of convincing himself he’s doing well towards you.”

You blinked, slow.

“Oh.” _That… made sense._

“Show that you appreciate it,” she ordered then, stiff. “You can’t see it locked away in here—or maybe you can—but he’s a live wire. It’s no good for the base or anyone in it if he keeps on sulking and throwing fits the way he is.”

You fidgeted and rolled the edges of a blanket between your fingers. “Of course.”

At that she nodded, firm, and said no more.

That evening when Kylo Ren pressed another bowl of that horrendous slush into your hands, you forced down every mouthful. And _held_ it down, impressively enough.

He arched a brow in disbelief at your willingness to comply with his attempts to bloat you, and you tried your best not to think too long on Phasma’s demand or that eensie weensie bit of guilt that had managed to worm its way into your guts.

You passed him your empty bowl proudly and his shoulders loosened a bit, almost contentedly.

It wasn’t until the doom lampshade was in the process of sliding beneath your blankets and winding his limbs around yours that you spoke again.

“I—”

You stopped, mouth snapping shut. No. _You couldn’t_. Your pride demanded you not. But… But he was taking _care_ of you. He had been, and continued to be, legitimately _worried_ about your stupid ass. And here you were, causing him enough angst that Captain Phasma of all people had gone and lectured you on it. Go _on, self. You can do it._

So you tried again.

“I—”

“You _what?_ ” he frowned.

“I’m ssssss—”

“ _What_?”

“I’m ssssssssssss—”

It just wasn’t going to come out. You sighed and closed your eyes.

_I’m sorry I got shot._

You were sorry your near death experience had botched the mission up for everyone the first time around. You were sorry that he spent so much time fretting over your crutch-bound butt. And mostly, you were sorry that if it came down to it, you would have chosen to die rather than suck up your pride and allow the doctors to change out the broken parts of you for shiny machinery.

It was just… you weren’t _used_ to people _caring_ about what happened to you.

And you hadn’t even thought to consider what that might entail until you realized you’d be pretty darn upset if something happened to _him_ too. And the major difference between the two of you was that while _you_ could patch him up on your own and knew what it would take to save his life under almost any condition _, he_ was relegated to the side lines—watching as someone else worked to fix you and prowling about, lost, when they could come up with nothing but what you refused to accept.

You went to cross your fingers over your heart, but his arms were locked around yours and you could hardly _move_ , let alone begin to extract your limbs from his octopus hold. You settled for a simple—

 “And I swear to never do it again.”

It was a stupid promise, and certainly not one you could hope to uphold. But you would _attempt_. Even if that meant sitting out on occasion.  

He nodded against your neck with a sigh that sent all the little hairs that lived there dancing about.

“Good.”

.

.

.

It took you an embarrassing amount of time to lose the crutches.

Two weeks, three days, and lord knew how many hours. ~~You weren’t _that_ desperate to count it out~~. Even without your neon cripple sticks cutting up your armpits and wreaking havoc with the circulation in your fingers, you still hobbled around the base like a total invalid—having to stop far too often to rub at the still aching muscles in your leg or lean up against a wall to catch your breath.

On top of all that obnoxiousness, Kylo Ren was still stuck in full blown mother hen mode, you’d gained six pounds, and you had officially decided that all the pampering in the world was not worth this.

So you tried very hard not to limp when you walked and grit your teeth through the pain whenever wounds flared up.

You clearly weren’t fooling anyone, but it gave you a wonderful sense of purpose.

It was on day number five of crutchless stumbling that you returned to your nightly mind-meld sessions. It had reached the point where you could call out to your emo Barbie easily enough, and project images in much the same fashion. It was far from effortless of course, ~~nothing in your life could be _easy_ , after all. That would be horrendously boring~~ but cranking the internal volume no longer had you collapsing into a hospital bed. So that was a good sign.

On day thirteen, Kylo Ren was shipped off with a company of Stormtroopers and two Knights ~~whose names you _really_ should have learned at this point~~ for Vonak. You’d gleaned little from his rushed goodbye, only that you should _stay in bed_ and _don’t put too much pressure on your leg_. Nothing of import. You’d managed to wheedle out of Hux that this new base of theirs needed a bit more order. Why Snoke would send your lampshade to any place that required **_order_ ** was beyond you. Hux snorted when you said as much and tacked on something about how there were still a lot of Cilare who needed to be cut down. Now _that_ made a lot more sense.

You slipped into bed that night with a satisfied hum ~~sore from exploring the halls because _ha ha_ , Kylo Ren wasn’t here to breathe down your damn neck so you could stumble about and trip over your clumsy feet without him acting like you were _dying._~~ You wrapped yourself up like the adorable little burrito that you were and closed your eyes, but—but… You squeezed your eyes shut even tighter.

Something… wasn’t right.  

You shimmied around, telling yourself that you ought to relish all this extra room while you had the chance, but… Thinking that only made the ‘not right’ even _worse_. You flopped about like a fish out of water until you smacked your face into your pillow and— _oh_. You inhaled, slow. _There was that not-sandalwood smell._ You kept your nose buried in the fluff for a few moments before realizing that _what the **heck.** You were **sniffing** a **pillow**. And not just sniffing—straight up **breathing** it in. Like inhaling that musty pillow-air was the greatest thing in the whole wide world. _ That couldn’t be normal.

So you pulled your face away and settled yourself in ~~properly~~ _normally_.

Ten minutes later, you were still up and staring blankly into the dark—unable to fall asleep no matter how much your muscles begged for rest. You tossed and turned and wound up sprawled flat on your back, gawking at the ceiling. _And that’s when it hit you._ The realization was only mildly horrifying.

_You couldn’t sleep because **Kylo Ren wasn’t here**. _

You _missed_ him.

You missed the way his limbs wound through yours, trapping you in place better than any prison cell ever could. You missed the iron grip that made it absolutely _impossible_ to sneak out of bed in the middle of the night when you had to pee. You missed the way his ~~fabulous~~ hair tickled your nose and made you sneeze. You missed the way he stuck his face into the crook of your neck and settled in with a contented sigh that brushed along your skin and made your stomach do all kinds of funny things.

_Oh, this was **bad.** _

You would pace it off but your leg hurt too much. You could try and rationalize it but your brain had clocked out ages ago.

You had to just… _let it be_.

So you grabbed your pillow that still smelled like his stupid not-sandalwood smell and hugged it tight to your chest with a frustrated _harrumph_. The Kyber Crystal around your neck glowed faintly in the dark and you closed your eyes once more, pretending just a little that the warmth of your blankets was more solid and that your pillow could hug back.

The doom bucket returned, successful ~~duh~~ , on day sixteen, and you tried your absolute fucking best not to think too long or too loud on how much you’d honest to God _missed_ him. Maybe he heard your internal whining, maybe he didn’t. You were just content that he didn’t poke fun at you when you snuggled up against him with a bit more gusto than normal. He didn’t even say anything when your fingers flitted down to grip his own where they lay splayed across your abdomen.  

You closed your eyes and breathed in soft, relieved.

_Cedar._

He smelled like cedar.

.

.

.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only took three more instances of Kylo Ren knocking you flat on your ass for you to realize that this was not going to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story hit 666 kudos and I was straight up ready to summon Satan like I was supposed to, but then it changed so my demon dealing days are over
> 
> Also you all are absolutely amazing and so so lovely and yeah. So thanks for all that amazingness.
> 
>  

 Two weeks of rest and many, many, drugs later found you good as new.

_Good as new._

**_Bah._ **

You were starting to hate that expression.

Because what _good_ was **_new?_**

It sounded perfectly nice on paper, but in reality, ‘new’ was _terrible_. You felt fresh, sure, but also fragile and _slow_. Had you been the fastest doctor around? Absolutely not. But you could sprint like Hell when you needed to. Now you were lucky if you could reach a steady jog without doubling over and vomiting your breakfast out of overexertion. All remnants of muscle memory from your days in the field had been lost. _Farewell. Adieu. So long badassery._

It was during this depressing time that you approached your favorite bucket-head for help. You trained with him as it was, and certainly your mind had gotten strong from that—stronger than it had _ever_ been. You just really needed your body to catch up to the rest of you. So why not train said body _at the same time?_ It made perfect sense. So much sense actually that you really deserved a medal or something for coming up with the idea.

Even with how great it was, Kylo Ren was still a bit hesitant when you pitched your fabulous and infallible plan. The conversation had gone something like this—

 _ **You:** can I join your morning training sessions?  
**Lampshade:** absolutely not._  
_**You:** do you _**want** me to die in the field?  
_**Lampshade:** *far too pregnant of a pause for your liking*_  
 _ **You:** if you don’t let me come along I’ll never let you sleep with me again._  
 __ **Lampshade:** you can join our training sessions.

Perfect, really.

You probably shouldn’t have been quite so excited to tag along to his super-secret dojo meetings, but it was so _cool_. You—clumsy, slow, and infantile _you_ —were going to train beside the hallowed _Knights of Ren._ Accompanying the merry band of black swathed misfits on missions as their medic was all fine and dandy, but now you would actually get to _work alongside_ these vicious executioners. The notion was so close to beautiful that you may have shed a tear.

Kylo Ren shook you awake in the morning and you were so pumped that you didn’t even stop to think about how this was the first time you’d woken up with him still wrapped up under your covers.

However, that bubbling enthusiasm came crashing to a disastrous halt not too long after _you_ went crashing to the floor.

He was totally smirking beneath that stupid fucking bucket and if you weren’t sprawled out on your back in agony you would have smacked that grin right off his dumb, fat, face.

“You asked to train with the Knights of Ren,” he hummed. Somehow the metal warping his voice made him sound _more_ arrogant. You hadn’t thought such a feat was possible. “Did you expect it to be easy?”

You had _expected_ him to start at level zero and slowly and respectfully work his way up from there. Not _hurl you through the air like a goddamn space ninja._

Olin was nice enough to pause his own sparring match to help you back up onto your shaking feet and you swiped a hand across your chin with a snarl ~~no tenderness, thank goodness. It was far too early in the morning for bruised jaws.~~ You pulled back your shoulders and straightened your spine as much as you could before squaring off with the infamous blanket hog once more. You had a very strong feeling that he was arching a brow at you in disbelief.

“Again?”

“Again.”

 _Womp._ His leg shot out almost faster than you could see and knocked your feet out from under you with a ~~frankly satisfying, you could admit that much~~ thud. Again you grit your teeth and dragged yourself back to the world of the vertical. And _again_ he launched himself forward and took you down with hardly any effort.

It only took three more instances of Kylo Ren knocking you flat on your ass for you to realize that this was _not_ going to work.  

With a tired huff you offered him your white flag of surrender and limped off to the corner. You slid down the wall with a heavy sigh, letting your head fall to rest on your knees. The quintessential picture of grief—of _pity_. That was what you were. You stayed curled up like that for Heavens knew how long before a gentle hand was placed on your shoulder and you looked up in surprise. It was nigh impossible to tell who was who beneath the masks, but the voice that spoke to you was vaguely familiar and distinctly feminine.

“If Snoke intends for you to come along on all of our missions, then it’s important that you learn how to protect yourself. You were a soldier before all this—an army doctor,” she said. It was more a statement than an inquiry, but you nodded in affirmation all the same. “So you know the basics then. Good.” She pulled you to your feet with a swift tug. “Can you shoot?”

“Yes.”

“Can you spar?”

“Not well, no.”

“Then we’ll start with that.” Your hesitance must have shown on your face because she snorted and shot Kylo what seemed to be a particularly _irked_ glower. “There’s a difference between teaching and peacocking.  Luckily, for you, I don’t allow the latter to interfere with the former. _Unlike some_.”

Ooh. A _direct_ dig. You could appreciate that.

She tapped your thigh with the edge of her staff. “Come on then. Let’s get started.” Another tap. “We’ll begin with your stance. I’m Jaina, by the way.”

You offered your own name distractedly in return as she worked on maneuvering your feet into the proper position and smacking your ankles until you managed to force your legs to contort into the angles she demanded.

Jaina was halfway through instructing you on the best way to throw a punch when you felt a familiar prickle digging into the back of your neck. You managed to angle your head just enough to catch sight of the bucket out of the corner of your eye. And the poor dear looked rather miffed to say the least. The Knight that he had been sparring with seemed to have backed out and was rubbing at an injured shoulder. The lampshade himself was turning his blunt training blade over and over in his hands—looking very much like he wanted to whip out his _actual_ saber and tear into his surroundings.

Jaina swiveled around then as well, taking note of your looming distraction with obvious distaste.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“ _No_ ,” came the grumbling snarl. “Carry on.”

The pair of you returned to the task at hand, entirely unconvinced. Then, of course, _not five minutes later—_

“Don’t you think you should be teaching her more defensive style tactics?”

“We’ll get to that, sir, yes.”

“Isn’t that more _important?_ ”

“Being able to utilize both offensive and defensive strategies in battle is very important.”

This Jaina lady clearly took _no shit_ from her pissy superior. You liked her already. Kylo addressed you then, irritated. “You’re going to be at my side the majority of the time—not theirs. You should let _me_ teach you what you need to know.”

**_What?_ **

That steady helmet-glare just kept on coming and you gawked at him, unsure whether to be shocked or downright furious.

_Well, **excuse you** , but you had **tried** to learn from him. And he had straight up **dumped you on your ass**. Not once, not twice, but **six** times. _

You could _feel_ the retort coming before he’d even had sufficient time to string together the words. You slid back into your stance and continued drilling the jabs, blatantly turning your back on him.  

“You can teach me _tomorrow_ if you’re so adamant about it.”

Seven heads swiveled your way in surprise. You would have made some crack about how they all looked like a bunch of evil chickens with their masks bobbing about like that, but you were only ~~friends with~~ on speaking terms with three of them, and while part of you believed your dearest emo would jump in to rescue you should they attempt to eviscerate you, a bigger part worried that he may just join in on the gutting thing if you compared him to a screeching bird. Instead, you did your best to seem like you weren’t overly offended by their lack of faith in you.

 **_Of course_ ** _you’d be returning tomorrow._

You shot the poor lampshade a very pointed arch of the brow and then a pretty decent mental shove just in case he still wasn’t getting the picture.

_Did he really think you’d give up on day one just because he was being a massive **bully?**_

Judging by his silence, _yes_ —yes he had.

You supposed it was a fair assumption. You _were_ normally one to take the easiest way out, and you were most _certainly_ someone who could talk the ear off of anyone or anything with all your _bellyaching_. Hard work of the physical persuasion was not your forte. But this was your _life_ you were talking about. And yeah, training sucked. It sucked even more that you were so far behind the rest of the class, legendary medical prowess or otherwise. But you had to force yourself to act like the adult you were and suck it up because you could quite literally **_die_** if you didn’t.

You drew your shoulders back with a lovely _crack_ that echoed throughout the room and looked up beneath your lashes to beam at your terrifying tutor.

“So. Punching?”

Jaina took a moment to mentally shake herself back to the present before moving to puppet your fists.

“Punching.”

.

.

.

You dragged yourself back into the world of consciousness the next morning with a gargantuan yawn and a puff of morning breath as potent as dragon fire. You rubbed your face into the pillow with a content little hum. _There was that cedar smell again._ You were so proud of your nose for finally identifying it. Not that you would ever _say_ that. At least… not out loud.

You went to stretch and _surprise, surprise._ All limbs locked in place. ~~Though seeing it was the morning and not the middle of the night, it _was_ a _bit_ of unexpected. Perhaps you’d woken up earlier than usual?~~

You settled for shimmying around until your front was to his front and you could bury your nose into his collarbone.

Sure, Kylo Ren had been a great, big ol’ bag of dicks during training the other day, but it was hard to stay angry at him when he was so _warm_. And he smelled absolutely _wonderful_. You pondered idly if you could find some way to steal his shampoo. Or at least bribe someone into telling you what brand it was.

The dark terror was starting to shift around a bit and you wormed yourself further into his chest with a sigh. The burst of warm air left a trail of goosebumps in its wake and you observed the flushed flesh curiously. You had never completely understood why he seemed to find it so necessary to burrow his face into your neck while you slept, but you were starting to see some of the appeal. You never got the chance to try it, what with you always having your back to him and such. You wondered fleetingly if you would ever get to be the big spoon in this arrangement. Probably not. He really liked keeping you all wrapped up tight against his chest, and that would be a bit hard for him to do if _you_ were the one doing the wrapping. _Speaking of wrapped up—_

His grip had tightened to the point that there was _no feasible way_ that he was still unconscious.

You glanced up at his face and yep—big brown eyes staring down at you. You counted up those thirty-two freckles, like somehow one or two could have vanished in the night. Yup. All accounted for. You checked again, just to be sure, but… He wasn’t moving. And you weren’t moving. But more importantly _he **still** wasn’t moving. _

You blinked, slow.

What did one usually say in this kind of situation?

_Good morning?_

_I hope you slept well?_

_You smell like someone managed to bottle Heaven and douse you in all its hallowed contents?_

Instead, he beat you to the punch with—

“I don’t like you training with the Knights.”

You rolled your eyes. He just kept on beating this poor, dead, horse. “Would you rather I _not_ train with you and _die_.”

He shifted and squirmed around like he was about to try and escape, but _no **way** _ were you letting him get away that easily. So you did what he would do and snagged your arms around his middle like an ugly little barnacle and latched on tight. You felt the muscles in his chest clench from where your chin was propped against his shoulder ~~certainly he was about to try and throw you off~~ , so you held on even tighter. _Infamous psycho killer or otherwise, **you were going to win this battle**_.

He sighed, exasperated, and gave in to your grappling. “It’s not safe.”

“Nothing in the First Order is _safe_.”

“You know what I meant,” he snapped.

 _You did._ “What else would you have me do?” you asked. “Train with Phasma’s troops? Under _Hux’s?_ That’s not any _safer_.”

“Train with me.”

_That sounded like it was **by far** the **least safe** option of all. _

~~You weren’t going to be a brat and remind him that you _already_ trained with him on a daily basis. ~~

“What’s so different between training with _you_ and training with Jaina and the rest of the Knights?” Then, because no matter how cozy he was, you were still damn spiteful, “Other than the fact that she doesn’t _actively_ try to snap my spine?”

He scoffed. “I wasn’t trying to _snap your spine_.”

“Oh, yeah? How about you Force-toss _yourself_ into the wall a couple times and tell me how you like it.”

“Listen to me—” You could see the muscles working in his jaw around his clenched teeth. You knew how each of those ligaments worked, but it was fascinating to see it so close, watching how they moved and tugged at his skin, “—I won’t do it again. You have my word. But spending time with the Knights is _dangerous. **They**_ are dangerous _._ ”

 _No more than he was_ , you wanted to snap back. _And how **exactly** was he expecting you to go on missions with him if you weren’t allowed near his mystical boy band?_

“I don’t trust them.”

“You’re the _head_ of the Knights of Ren. _How_ can you not _trust_ them?!”

“I don’t trust them to do what _needs_ _to be done!_ ”

Your brow furrowed. Beneath all that petulant anger he looked… _afraid?_ No. _Certainly_ he wasn’t _afraid_ over something so trite, let alone for…

“ _Please_ tell me this doesn’t have to do with me being a liability.”

“They would have left you on Vonak—when you fell. They would have **_left you_** and carried on with the mission.”

Well _duh_. “As would _any_ rational soldier—”

“It’s not acceptable!” he roared. Across the room, a vase shattered and you jumped, knocking your forehead against his chin. You moved to rub at the fresh bump but his arms kept your own wedged against your sides so you had to settle for letting him bury his face into your neck with enough force to thoroughly distract you from the smiting skin. “I told you,” You could feel that growl all the way to the tips of your toes, “You’re not _allowed_ to die.”

“I’m doing my best.”

No reply. Just the steady puff of warm breath against your skin. You decided to try again.

“But I can only do so much without the proper preparation.”

You’d thought that maybe he had begun to loosen his hold but— _ah._ Nope. _There_ it was. Just on the right side of suffocation.

“You’ll train with me.”

You gave in to your inner five year old and whined, “But we _already_ train together.”

“We need to learn to _work_ together.”

“We do more than enough of that!”

“I’ll let you practice with my saber.”

“Nice try, but—” you froze. “… _What?_ ”

Kylo looked very much like he wanted to bite off his own tongue. Or at the very least be absolutely anywhere but where he currently lay, hardly two inches from your eager face. He inhaled through clenched teeth and spat out, “You heard what I said.”

The sensible part of your brain told you that playing with light sabers was ridiculous and dangerous and that he certainly wouldn’t let you do more than maybe _hold_ his precious baby while it was silent and cold, but the _rest_ of you was _vibrating_ in excitement at the idea. You imagined yourself in ~~Jedi~~ Sith garb, swinging his fiery blade of doom in wide arcs through the air and cutting through all that stood in your path.

He winced and you wondered how much he _loathed_ your imagination’s newest creation. _~~You~~_ ~~thought it was glorious.~~

“It would be practical,” he continued, though it seemed like he was hardly managing to grit out the words, “for you to understand how it functions. Should anything happen, it’s the strongest weapon you have available, and you should know how to wield it without decapitating yourself.”

You decided to skim over the fact that he was sort of implying he could die in the field and honed in on the ‘you should know how to wield it.’ Because _yes. Yes, yes, yes, **yes.**_ Hell fucking _yeah_ you wanted to stab things with a mother trucking _light saber_.

“Deal.”

His eyebrows rose a solid three inches in shock.

“Really? That simple?”

You nodded a bit too forcefully, knocking your nose against his in the process. “You betcha.”

While you certainly respected Jaina and her wise tutelage, you could tell the Knight had far better things to do than play sensei to a floundering student. And even more important was the fact that you wouldn’t even have to pretend to make the _whoosh whoosh_ sounds anymore because you would get to use an _actual light saber_. ~~Sure, probably not very _often._ But even a minute would be more than worth giving in to his ridiculous demands.~~

The dark menace released your waist to reach up and run a hand through his mused hair. He pressed his eyes closed and rubbed his fingers into his temples.  

“If I had known offering you a chance to use my saber would sway you so easily I would have done so much sooner.”

You shrugged. What could you say? You were drawn to shiny objects. Like a cat. Or a goldfish.

You yawned once more and ~~now that you were finally free of your arm prison~~ rolled over onto your back with a _looong_ stretch. Your back arched nicely and you _may_ have let out a somewhat indecent noise that had no place amongst polite company. Kylo Ren looked oddly perturbed by the span of skin peeking out from beneath your crumpled shirt and the face he made at your, _ahem_ **, _noise-that-was_ - _totally-not-sexual-in-any-way_** was almost _insulting._ He looked _pained_ and you had half a mind to make that stupid stretch-noise _again_ just to watch him squirm. _~~Seriously?~~_ ~~He was all snuggled up in bed with you and that was all fine and dandy but the second you looked in any way _attractive_ he makes a face like he’s ready to _vomit? **Not cool**._~~ Instead you rolled onto your stomach and smacked your face into the pillows.

“When do we start?”              

Another drag of fingers through his hair accompanied by a tired huff. _His hair looked so soft._ You wanted to reach out and touch it, but you kept your hands smooshed under your blankets. You _felt_ him flinch _way_ too violently at that and you rolled your eyes ~~what was he, 12? It was a _compliment_~~ but pushed all thoughts of his voluptuous locks to the back of your skull anyways.

Despite his apparent _distaste_ for you and all your natural splendor this lovely morning, he relaxed once more into the mattress and tugged you back against his side.

“We can begin in a few hours. There’s no reason to get up so early if we’re not meeting with the others.”

You sighed and closed your eyes. “Special treatment? Careful there, Mr. Ren. Trying to seduce your student right out of the gate is a _terrible_ idea—”

Your bed _exploded_ in a hurricane of fabric and chaos and you barely managed to extradite yourself in time to see the door slide closed with an echoing _bang_ behind him.

“I was _joking!_ ”

.

.

.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smirked. “Trust me.”
> 
> You sighed, annoyed, and fell back into the proper stance. Because as much as you hated to admit it, you really, really, did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti*  
> Have some sexual tension.

It had been a very long time since you’d been anyone’s student.

Over the past few years, you’d been a teacher, a reluctant mentor, and even an exam proctor, but you hadn’t been under another person’s _tutelage_ since your days as a zit faced teen—cramming for basic anatomy exams and making enemies out of all your professors with your staunch stance on ‘new medicine.’ You were warming to the idea of training alongside Kylo Ren and Kylo Ren alone, but calling him your _teacher_ made your flesh itch.

Speaking of your new tutor, he’d been almost _nervous_ since your dumb ass attempt to be funny earlier that morning. Well, perhaps ‘nervous’ was the wrong word. But he was certainly _jittery_. Normally he had absolutely zero qualms about personal space, about touching or arguing or anything else. Now he walked a solid three feet away and you weren’t sure what you were supposed to _do_. The helmet made it unfairly difficult to read his face, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t feel the weight of his eyes on you. Oddly enough, his glaring didn’t feel _angry_ so much as _curious_.

You weren’t sure whether to groan or sigh in relief when he led you to the usual cave that housed your mental training sessions.

You tossed your cloak to the side and Kylo removed his helmet with a _hiss_ of compressed air. You shifted awkwardly from foot to foot and pulled at the Kyber Crystal hanging around your throat. Without the bucket obscuring his face, you could see the way his dark eyes traced over the movement.

You cleared your throat and he blinked, once, twice, and crossed his arms loosely over his chest.

“Attack me.”

“Pardon?”

“ _Attack_ me.”

You gawked stupidly at your instructor and he rolled his eyes.

“Sometime today, doctor.” He scoffed at your hesitance. “I won’t _snap your spine_ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me _how_ to attack you?”

“We’ll get to that.”

“But—”

“ _Now_.”

So you grabbed his cloak and pulled it tight over his head ~~because what were you _supposed_ to do? Fucking _deck_ him?~~ and kept on yanking until he managed to swivel around and latch onto your wrists—locking you in place. You couldn’t quite see it beneath the mass of black fabric, but you had a gut feeling that his face was twisted up like he’d bitten into something unpleasant.

“ _What_ was that supposed to accomplish?”

“I… don’t know.”

The cloak fell away with an over exaggerated shrug and _yep_ , there was that lemon pucker glower. More important than that though—his poor, perfect, hair was a _hot mess_. You snickered and he frowned sourly down at you.

He squeezed your wrists pointedly and you glanced down at your trapped arms.

“ _Unconventional_ assault or otherwise, it doesn’t make up for your posture.” His foot slid forward and kicked your knees apart. “You need to widen your stance. It will improve your balance and striking power.”

You nodded. _Wide stance. Powerful punch. Got it._

He released one wrist. “Hit me.”

You observed him silently for a moment before reaching up to smack him across the back of the head. Again, he snagged your forearm tightly in his gloved fingers, but before the bucketless-bucket could open his mouth to start lecturing you about _angle_ and _stance_ and _blablabla_ , you arched your knee up with every intent to nail him where the sun don’t shine. He was forced to release your other wrist to stop the attack before it hit home and you tried to use the distraction and newly freed hand to whack him, but before you could get too close you were flipped around and smooshed into the floor—arms locked firm behind you and a knee pressed sharp into your back.

He glared.

You shrugged hopelessly.

After a few moments the pressure on your lower back eased and he helped you to your feet.

You rubbed at your aching tailbone and offered him an apologetic half-frown. “Sorry.”

“No, that was… good.” He looked ridiculously uncomfortable. And a bit pink around the edges.

Your frown deepened and you leaned forward, trying to get a better look at him. “Are you alright?”

He seemed to snap out of the awkward funk at that and swiveled in the opposite direction with an irritated huff. “Of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

He had a point.

You shrugged once more and he turned on you with a heavy sigh. “At least your reflexes are decent.”

“Thank you?”

He nodded and you shuffled about, trying to get the remaining stiffness out of your joints. Kylo straightened his cloak so it fell neatly back over his shoulders and situated himself so he stood a few feet across from you.

“Come at me again.”

_This wasn’t going to work._

He smirked. “Trust me.”

You sighed, annoyed, and fell back into the proper stance. Because as much as you hated to admit it, you really, really, did.

.

.

.

Training twice a day with you and again with Snoke seemed a bit redundant. You felt you ought to tell Kylo as much, but apparently the gloom-doom lampshade had figured that out all on his own. He’d even _addressed_ the situation. ~~You were sickeningly proud.~~ Except rather than do the _intelligent_ thing and combine your double sessions, he decided to just go ahead and cut out his own teacher from the loop.

The Supreme Leader seemed to be more than willing to suspend the daily training sessions with his wicked student, which was… unexpected? You weren’t quite sure what you _had_ been _expecting_ to happen when Kylo informed Snoke that he would be taking you on as his pupil. But utter compliance was _not_ it.

Perhaps it had something to do with that whole ‘teaching something is the best way to learn said thing’ ideology. Or perhaps the mysterious leader just wasn’t willing to put up with the potential tantrum.

Either way it meant you didn’t have to sit through Snoke’s eerie blue staring and that was fine by you.

You ran into Hux in the Northern Hallway that afternoon and considered stopping to chat and ask how dear Millicent was doing with her life—if she was eating well, sleeping enough. That sort of rubbish.

But the closer you got, the more you could make out his shark-grin, and you were just about ready to swivel on your heel and pretend you hadn’t seen him at all when he called your name in that smug, predatory way of his. You stepped forward with a twitch.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good _afternoon_ , doctor.”

You rolled your eyes.

He crossed his arms neatly beneath the back of his stiff jacket. “I see you’ve healed up nicely.”

You nodded. “Thankfully, yes.”

The fuckboy tilted his head endearingly and drilled into you with those big ol’ blue eyes. He was doing a _marvelous_ job of acting concerned. “And Ren isn’t pushing you too hard? I don’t expect that he’s a very fair teacher.”

 _No,_ _he most certainly was **not**_. And you had the bruises to prove it. But you weren’t going to tell that to _Hux_ of all people. There were far better ways to plant your wondrous seeds of gossip should you desire to watch it spread.

“He respects my limits.”

He arched a brow. “Does he really?”

You thought of being pinned to the cave wall with a crystal digging into your front and a Knight at your back as you tried to escape his hold, and how you had to put in your absolute maximum effort not to think of anything indecent lest he up and sprint from the room. ~~~~

“Ye _p_.”

Another tilt of the head. “And he’s not taking advantage of you?”

You almost choked on your tongue. “ _No_.”

The General was _grinning_ now, and he looked very much like he had caught you in some sort of elaborate trap. “If you’re sure, doctor. I assume the same can be said for you as well.”

_Oh **no.** _

“Good day, doctor.”

He nodded once in farewell before heading off down the hall, coat billowing out behind him in a fashion that was perhaps meant to appear dramatic, but only made him look like even more of a smug _git_. You watched him go, mind screaming all types of horrible things.

_He **knew.**_

_And you hadn’t even gotten to ask about Millicent._

_And he **knew.** _

You let your head fall back to collide against the wall with an echoing _smack_ and your rubbed the heels of your palms into your eyes.

How the ginger had managed to piece together your _attraction_ to a certain bucket was a mystery ~~and damn impressive, you’d admit it~~. _You_ hardly understood it yourself. It was just a stupid crush. A ridiculous, hopeless, _crush._ It made perfect sense, really. Kylo Ren was powerful, attractive, and a great cuddler. _Of course_ your brain would choose to dub him the object of your affections.

 _No_. This was alright. You could handle this.

It didn’t matter that Hux _knew_ because that knowledge was only useful while said infatuation was still all snuggled up, safe in the confines of your chest. And the nice thing about crushes was that they came and went like little old ladies flitting about a market, and this one would be no different.

You sighed, long and heavy.

_A week. You could be over it in a week._

.

.

.

Seven days later found you prodding at your abysmal oatmeal, equally sore, equally tired, and equally infatuated. _Perfect_.

“You look exhausted.”

The lumpy goo dripped unpleasantly from your spoon and landed with a wet _plop_ amidst the rest of the mush.

“I forgot how draining being a student can be,” you said, finally giving up and pushing your plate away. Jaina was in the process of consuming her own breakfast, though she didn’t seem half as disgusted as you were by the monochromatic gruel. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this whole ‘warrior’ thing.”

“But you’re not going to quit.” It didn’t sound like a question. Hardly anything she said ever sounded even the least bit like an inquiry, but you always felt compelled to reply nonetheless.

“Of course not.”

She shrugged and spooned another mouthful of porridge past her lips. “Then you have no right to complain. Not really. You can do it, you know. Kylo Ren may be difficult to work with, but he’s the best fighter the First Order has. You’ll learn more than enough from him to survive in the field.”

You rubbed at your aching arms. “I know.” _Knowing_ that didn’t alleviate any of the fatigue though. .

She tilted her head, brown hair falling into her eyes. “If you’re not sleeping well, maybe you should consider kicking him out of your quarters.”

You choked.

“ _What?_ ”

She shot you a stern _you know exactly what I’m talking about_ look before returning to her meal. You gaped, horrorstruck. **_How_** did _every fucking person_ seem to know what was going on in your ~~nonexistent~~ personal life? Was it tattooed across your forehead? Was there some new way you were brushing your hair that screamed _there was someone in my bed last night_? Were you just that **_obvious_** _?_

Before you could splutter out something along the lines of “how the absolute _shit on a stick_ do you even _know_ that?” a stormtrooper flew past your table, looking almost wild. He saluted one of the Captains hurriedly before unleashing a whole slew of garbled nonsense that you couldn’t hope to comprehend. Jaina’s light eyes followed the exchange curiously.

The Captain and soldier both hurriedly scuttled forward to leave and she frowned.

As they passed, you managed to pick apart a few of their hissed whispers.

_—attack on the outpost—_

_—an apprentice—_

_—Skywalker’s **returned** —_

You turned to your companion, concerned. She glared after the officers with narrowed eyes, but made no move to follow.

“Is something… wrong?”

Jaina stared at the empty doorway for a long while before returning to her oatmeal. “Maybe.”

.

.

.

“ _Again_.”

His fingers latched around your wrist and twisted. You spun into the hold and kicked out and away. When that didn’t work you swiveled and tried to duck out under his arm, dancing around at an awkward angle so that he was forced to release your wrist lest he risk dislocating his shoulder trying to keep a hold on you. Just when you thought you were in the clear, gloved hands snagged your forearm and reeled you back. You rammed into his chest with an _oof_ and stood there, gasping and exhausted and _livid_.

“That’s not fair!”

He scoffed and let you yank your arm free.

“There’s no _fair_ in fighting.”

“You _saw_ which way I was going to go!” you argued. “I would have gotten away perfectly _fine_ if you hadn’t been able to _hear what I was thinking!_ ”

“It doesn’t matter what you ‘could’ have done, because it didn’t happen,” he snapped. “I can hear your thoughts, yes, and I’m sure that _any other_ Force sensitive person out there can too. You need to learn to attack on _instinct._ You can’t spend what little time you have _pondering_ over which move to make. Wasting time like that is what will get you _killed_.”

But you couldn’t _help_ but think over everything! You had been trained in the _mind_! That was your _job!_ You didn’t make _any_ move without _rationalizing_ it first! And even if you could, you weren’t _good enough_ at this whole fighting thing to act on ‘gut feelings.’ You could hardly throw a proper punch when you thought it through, let alone without thinking at all!

“Go again.”

You held out your arm, petulant, and he reached out to grab it. He arched a brow when you kept your limb extended, stiff and unmoving.

“Well?”

You snarled and tugged and spun and jumped and did just about everything in your power to try and wriggle your way out of his iron grip. But it wouldn’t _work_. Because not only was he physically stronger and way fucking taller than you, but every move you intended to make was literally being **_televised_** _directly into his skull_. It wasn’t fair! And screw ‘fighting’s not fair.’ ~~Bull ** _shit_**. This was _training_ and he could damn well go out of his way to level the playing field~~. It wasn’t like you could just _stop thinking_. _How_ did you even _begin_ to do that? Because that had gone _so well_ in the beginning when you were still fighting to keep your head private and silent.

His fingers tightened and you moved to stomp on his foot. Then, snooty as ever, “Is that really the best you can do? I thought you were improving.”

 _Oh_ , **motherfucker**. He was going to regret that.

The brat wanted you not to think about your actions? To take advantage of the situation in any way you could? Then _fine_. You’d take _advantage_ of it—

You surged forward and slammed into him with something that was far more a nose-bleed-inducing head butt than a kiss, but it was lips-on-lips nonetheless and you pressed into it with everything you had. Brown eyes widened almost comically in shock and you weren’t sure if you’d ever seen him quite so surprised as he was at that moment, and— ** _aha!_**

You tore yourself free from his slackened hold and stumbled across the room with a celebratory hoot.

_Finally!_

You grinned over at him, triumphant, but then your mirth froze on your face and slowly crumbled into _panic._

Because, sure, you hadn’t expected him to be _happy_ about your smooch attack, but he looked, well, he _looked_ … Maybe that was the problem—you couldn’t _tell_ what he looked like. Maskless or no. You’d expected some indignant rampaging, sure, maybe even a hefty dose of disgust. But there was _nothing_. He was always overflowing with some kind of wild emotion, and now…

He just stared over at you, almost like he’d been struck blind, deaf, and dumb.

Totally blank.

Unreadable.

Oh, you must have done something _terrible_.

_The worst of the worst._

_Oh no, oh no, oh no, **oh no** —_

You had crossed the biggest of the big lines—there must have been some sort of ancient Sith-law in place for situations like this, and you had gone and _broken_ it. You’d utterly _desecrated_ an unspoken rule of combat older than time itself. ~~Or maybe he just really didn’t want your lips anywhere near his~~. This was bad. This was so, _so, **so**_ bad.

You—You would just have to _apologize_. Yes, that. Say you were sorry and hope for the best. Because surely even you deserved _some_ mercy, right? Of course you did. _~~Did you?~~_ And what would happen if he refused to accept your repentance? Would you—would they make you leave? Would he refuse to let you train with him or anyone else ever again? What would you even _do_ if he—

Then all your fretting and mental stampeding came crashing to a thunderous halt because Kylo Ren was lunging forward to drag you back.

His hands were in your hair and his mouth was on yours, rough and desperate and **_woah_** _. You had **not** expected **that.** _

He withdrew for just a second with a truly _incredulous_ scoff. “Then you are the most **ignorant** person I’ve ever met.”

And then his lips were back on yours and you decided to ignore the insult in favor of reaching up to throw your arms around his shoulders and pull yourself closer. There was lots of nose-bumping and a bit too much teeth but it didn’t _matter_. Because your thoughts had already descended into chaos and your singular goal in life was to keep this _going_. You hardly registered the fact that your feet were pedaling in reverse until your back slammed into the wall and you gasped—more surprise than discomfort. The Knight took advantage of your brief moment of bewilderment to slip his tongue between your lips to press against your own, and you closed your eyes and tilted your head back to give him better access. Weren’t you supposed to battle it out? Or something like that? You honestly couldn’t see the point, because this was _shockingly_ pleasant. So you curled your own tongue against his and let him explore.

You were breathless and on the verge of death in a disappointingly short amount of time. Making out was swell and all, but you were damn near close to suffocation. So you pulled away with a spluttering inhale and let your head fall back to rest against the stone wall as you choked and gasped like a damn asthmatic.

To be fair, while you were certainly pathetic, Kylo Ren didn’t seem to be in much better condition. His head fell to rest in the crook of your neck and you felt each strained huff and puff brush through your hair.

You managed to downgrade your choking to a slightly labored pant, and once that was under control you took a moment to observe your compadre.

His face was still pressed into your shoulder, even though he normally _towered_ over you and hunching over like this couldn’t have been pleasant on his back at all. The hands that had been tangled in your hair had shifted to rest at your waist and his gloved fingers were twisted up in the fabric there so tightly you were almost worried you might have to grab a pair of scissors to cut him free.

“That was…” You stared up at a crystal above your head. It was dull and cracked, “unexpected?”

He snorted. “Was it really?”

You thought of Hux, and Jaina, and Snoke, and of all the pitiful looks they’d shot your apparently very unobservant self over the course of _weeks_.

“Well… maybe not.”

You’d just assumed that this whole situation had been a very one way street, so to speak.

Another snort. “I suppose that’s one thing we have in common.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You can _hear_ my _thoughts_.” Sure, you had tried your best to downplay the majority of it because it always seemed to make him so _uncomfortable,_ but surely _something_ must have slipped through the nerve net before you had managed to flop topics.

The dark menace shrugged awkwardly, almost embarrassed. He was pressed up against you so closely that the jerky movement dragged you along with it.

“You’re blunt. It’s hard to tell the difference between what’s just your _unique_ style of internal commentary, and what’s…” he trailed off, burrowing his nose into the junction between your neck and collar bone. He sighed and the warm air tickled your skin. You tried not to fidget. “You’re difficult to read.”

At this point, his mouth had started sliding across your neck—whether intentional or otherwise—and it was getting _really_ hard to focus on the conversation. You could feel his lips twist into a smirk against your skin and you shivered. He mouthed over your stuttering pulse and scientifically possible or otherwise, the bones in your legs had _definitely_ melted into gelatinous goo. You doubted you’d still be upright if it wasn’t for the rigid hands at your hips holding you in place. Teeth grazed over your throat followed not long after by a warm tongue and you craned your head back to stare up at the ceiling, trying your darndest not to let the rest of you crumble in the same way your poor legs had.

“Soo…” You locked onto that same, dim, crystal perched ever so neatly over your head. “Training?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You arched a brow in challenge, ~~trying to~~ super successfully ignoring the way he nipped at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Education is no joke.”

Kylo Ren drew back from your neck and you smiled sweetly at that familiar set of deep, brown eyes—narrowed in obvious exasperation. _Ah, screw it_. You reached up to grab a handful of that coveted, black, hair that you still hadn’t been able to properly touch, and pulled his mouth back down to yours. Your murder class could wait. Besides, this could count as a study hall.

.

.

.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, secrets were no fun unless they were shared with everyone.
> 
> Particularly you.
> 
> Especially you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that actual plot I see? *squints* Great bouncing icebergs, It would appear so.

Many people seemed to be morally opposed to the notion of labels. Something about how it was _wrong_ to shove living creatures into tightly knitted slots with no room for growth or escape. _You_ on the other hand could not _live_ without labels. Chaos was all well and good in the physical world, but in your head you needed to be able to keep your shit organized.

 _Good, bad, deadly, semi-deadly, only kind of semi-deadly_ —all very valid brandings that assisted you in getting through the day to day fuck fest that was the First Order.

Everyone you knew and everything you did was neatly sectioned off and stamped with the appropriate inscription.

Hux was _tolerable fuckboy._

Snoke was _employer._

Olin was _pal;_ Jaina, _intimidating._

The Knights were _allies._

The base was _home_.

Oatmeal was _disgusting_.

_And Kylo Ren…_

Well, that was the problem. You weren’t quite sure _what_ Kylo Ren was anymore.

 _Boyfriends_ belonged to cloying teenagers and desperate housewives, neither of which you could claim to be ~~thank God above~~. _Lovers_ belonged in sub-par history textbooks and gooey period dramas filled with bad-acting and sand. _Partner_ made it sound like you were about to run off and start solving mysteries together.

But certainly he must have fit into _one_ of those categories.

Because you may have been a bit lacking in the companion department, but even someone as socially deficient as _you_ knew that even the best of friends didn’t ram each other into the walls and shove their tongue down your throat. Best friends could share beds, sure, but sharing pillows and personal space was another matter entirely. Then there was the possessiveness, the _protectiveness,_ and just about everything else about him.

For now you gently pressed him back into the ‘best friend’ box that he’d been occupying these past few months. You’d try to classify the poor bucket another day. You shoved the colorful box back into the archive of your thoughts, but you left the lid open, just in case.

You yawned and barely even considered stretching at this point because Heavens knew your limbs weren’t going anywhere, what with your bedmate’s octopus hold and all that.

Hands reached up to clamp loosely around your wrists and now you _definitely_ were not going anywhere.

You decided that morning kisses were nice. The morning _breath_ you could do without. ~~You _hardly_ enjoyed the taste of your _own_ rotting mouth, let alone someone _else’s_. _Yeck_~~ _._ But as far as concessions went, the tradeoff made it tolerable.

It was an awkward mess of contortionism for a few moments until the dark menace realized that locking lips over your shoulder did _not_ work for any extended period of time, and he released your wrists so that you could roll around to face him. You let the lazy wakeup call continue until a yawn cracked your lips and broke you apart.

It was a new experience, sure. But you could definitely get used to this. Rancid morning breath and all.

You let your head fall back against the pillows with a contented hum.

“Good morning, sir.”

His eyes tightened.  

 _Ah_ , less than five minutes spent in the world of the conscious and he was already irritated. Surely that had to be a new record. “You know that you don’t have to call me that.”

You shrugged and rubbed at your sleep-crusted eyes. It wasn’t exactly _tradition_ , but it had been a greeting you’d used for _months_. It felt familiar and easy—whether you were exempt from partaking in those formalities now or otherwise.

He was still staring down at you and you reached over curiously to poke at his scar with the tip of a finger. It had been given a decent amount of time to heal and considering the fact that he’d intentionally picked the wound raw, the resulting blemish wasn’t _nearly_ as awful as you’d thought it’d be.

He scoffed. “Is that so?”

“I tried to take care of it,” another poke, “—tried to save some of the tissue from necrosis at least.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“You were… indisposed.”

A moment of silent searching. “Comatose, you mean.”

“To be fair,” you parried, “if you’d been conscious, you probably would have killed me.”

“Of course not.”

Your brows shot up in disbelief.

“The Supreme Leader ordered me not to. It would have been in direct violation to his command.”

“Wow. That makes me feel so much better.” You rolled onto your stomach so you could get a proper look and prodded once more at the discolored flesh, more carefully this time—clinical. “I still say you’re stupid for not letting me fix it.”

“It’s a mark of pride—of battle.” His lips twisted and you had a feeling he was aiming for casual dismissal, but instead he almost looked self-conscious. “Is it really that unappealing?”

 “Don’t be so narcissistic, you look perfectly fine.”

You shimmied closer and slowly walked your fingers over the garish slash. It started about half-way up his forehead—a bit off kilter from the center—and ran all the way down to his jaw, splitting his cheek in a mottled canvas of reds and pinks. You didn’t have much experience with scars, thanks to that fantabulous medical prowess of yours, but they were fascinating little beasties, weren’t they?

“You risked infection and muscle cell death for…for—what was it you said? A _reminder_?”

“It’s no more ridiculous than your refusal to accept prosthetics.”

“Touché.” His frown had relaxed into something more pleasant. Not exactly a smile, not even a smirk. A _less severe_ line maybe. You took that to be a good sign and kept on tracing the damaged tissue. “You’re just lucky it didn’t get your eye. _That_ would have complicated things.”

“Could you have regrown it?” he asked, though he seemed a bit distracted. “Or would you have let me go _blind_ rather than turn to mechanization?”

“Of course I could have _regrown_ it,” you scoffed. “Who do you think I am?”

You were practically lying on top of him at this point and while _you_ were more than comfortable substituting his abdomen for your mattress, the poor emo Barbie looked just about ready to crawl out of his skin. Which you honestly found so _odd_ because _hello_ , he slept just as close to you ~~if not more so~~ _every, single,_ night. And _he_ was the one to instigate that! Maybe this discomfort was something you ought to ‘talk about.’ _Ugh_. But that’s what happened in ‘successful’ partnerships, right? _Talking_ about things. Oh, this was going to be _awful_. And this was all his fault! _Why_ was you being plopped on top of him in a manner that was legitimately _not attractive at all_ an **_issue_** when he was _more than fine_ with shoving you up against a wall and molesting your mouth?! It was unjust! An imbalance of power if ever there was one! It was the most unethical of travesties! It was—

You were flipped with an _oomph_ and pressed deep into the mattress—silver sheets at your back and black Knight at your front.

“ _Why_ are you so obnoxious?”

You shrugged and arched forward a bit, lips _almost_ just touching. He stared you down hard, brown eyes dark and clearly _waiting_ for you to move forward. After another moment of hovering, motionless, he surged forward on his own. Your hand snapped up to slap over his mouth and you could _feel_ the snarl forming against your palm. Not gonna lie, you were a bit worried he was about to bite you, but you stayed brave and kept your barricade in place.

“Look, this has been great and all, and I think I’ve been pretty obliging seeing how early it is. But you _need_ to brush your teeth.”

The Knight scoffed but didn’t hiss out any kind of complaint.

You cautiously removed your hand and he huffed, sending that nasty ass morning breath washing right over your face. You crinkled up your nose. “ _Now_ who’s obnoxious?”

He rolled his eyes but climbed off you nonetheless and made a beeline for the bathroom. You waited until you could hear the water running in the sink before you began the ever tedious process of hauling yourself out of bed.

.

.

.

Secrets, secrets were no fun unless they were shared with everyone.

Particularly you.

 _Especially_ you.

You were seated across from Olin and Jaina. Kylo was at your left and a picked-apart plate of fruit innards sat at your right. You popped a hunk of mushy apple into your mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

Jaina and Olin had hardly touched their own breakfasts which was an oddity in itself.

While neither of the killers were normally particularly _chatty_ , they at least nodded along at your ramblings and grunted at the appropriate intervals. Their distracted silence had left _you_ in silence and you poked awkwardly at your stripped apple core. You cleared your throat.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes.” “No.”

_Well then._

You angled yourself towards Jaina, because clearly she was the truthful one of the pair. “Does this have to do with what that stormtrooper was panicking about the other day?”

She nodded and Olin kept casting semi-nervous looks to your left.

“You know who Luke Skywalker is, correct?”

Kylo went rigid at your side.

“I know _of_ him.”

“You know what he is.”

“He’s a Jedi. The last one, right? You guys were hunting him.”

She nodded again. Your poor bucket was stiff as a board beside you, and you could practically _feel_ the stress rocketing through him. You had half a mind to caution him about bursting blood vessels and nerve-induced heart attacks. Instead, you focused on the light, swirling, grain in the tabletop and pushed that calm onto him. It did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders or the fists clenched tight at his sides. Now _that_ was troubling.

“We knew that he had returned to the Resistance,” Jaina continued. “But he was spotted on the field during a skirmish. And he wasn’t alone.”

Half-forgotten memories of crumbling bases and vicious battle wounds flared up at the forefront of your mind. You felt your companion flinch.  

“He’s training that girl from Jakku,” you guessed.

“So we’ve been informed.”

Olin looked decidedly uneasy and the Knight at your side remained unnaturally still.

You stared hard at the fruit seeds littering your plate. “So what happens now?”

Jaina shrugged. “We wait.”

.

.

.

Three days later reports came flooding in of a skirmish near the fringes of the Western Reaches. Two staff sergeants had been killed alongside the entirety of their squadrons and Lieutenant Heth had been taken prisoner. A First Order loyalist had reported the battle to the local Commanders. There had been no survivors. The informer told of a swift and powerful wave of fighter-bombings followed by a platoon of Resistance soldiers led by _two_ Jedi.

The atmosphere of the base was grim. The Knights of Ren were on edge and the Stormtroopers seemed to jump at shadows. Kylo destroyed the War Room and tore his chambers to flaming shreds.

By the end of the day there was talk of reciprocation and the assembly of a task force to eliminate this new threat. Kylo Ren was pushed into meetings with all of the Order’s military leaders and you were rushed away to the infirmary where you were put to work instructing a new batch of field medics and seasoned nurses alike on how to best save someone’s life on the battlefield with minimum supplies and no access to robotic aid. One of the fresh faces raised his hand and asked shakily how to treat a lightsaber-inflicted trauma. You wanted to ensure him that he wouldn’t need to know how to deal with something as obscure as a saber wound, but you remembered the Kylo Ren from all those months ago who was laid out and dying on your operating table. So you talked about the cauterization of the slashes and how easily plasma cut through flesh and taught them how to stop the cell death.

You looked up halfway through lecturing about how to properly sterilize a standard needle and thread for on-site stitching to see a Knight of Ren standing in the doorway.

An unfamiliar voice greeted you. “Doctor, you’re to report to the launch bay. You’ve been selected for the Garroter Unit.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise.

Surely the Knights and your doom lampshade would be a part of the task force assigned to take down the Jedi. And if your menacing charge was being sent somewhere, so were you.

_But—_

You thought of being shot down on Vonak and the muscles in your thigh twinged uncomfortably. You thought of Kylo’s panic—of the unrestrained _terror_ and _anger_ when you fell. You thought of the vase that exploded in a burst of sharp glass when you brought up your brush with mortality. You thought about your training, and how you weren’t nearly ready to put it to the test. But mostly you thought of your promise not to die.

You huffed, irked, and wished you’d had the sense to cross your fingers when you made it. Just in case.

.

.

.

You weren’t Kylo Ren, and wired as you may have been, you still had enough sense about you not to go barreling into Snoke’s chambers without making an appointment. You waited ~~anxiously~~ patiently outside his chambers until the rampaging toddler had blown through. Eventually the door opened and the dark Knight hurdled past without sparing you a glance, black fabric swirling liked storms in his wake.

You stared after his retreating form cautiously before making your way into Snoke’s lair.

The Supreme Leader was seated atop his throne, slumped not so much in defeat but irritated exhaustion.

You opened your mouth.

“You are here for the same reason as Kylo I presume.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

Snoke heaved a great sigh like even though he was waging a full scale _war_ with the Resistance and he’d lost three commanding officers just that morning, Kylo Ren was still the most trying part of his day.

“You will remain with the unit and carry out the objective as instructed.”

 _Well._ Straight to the point then.

“Sir, with all due respect—”

“You are not at risk, doctor, no more than anyone else—if not _less_ so. Are you as competent as the Knights of Ren when it comes to field combat? No. But hardly anyone is. In comparison to the majority of the First Order’s troops, you are _over_ qualified. There will be other medics present in case of emergency. You will be more than well protected. Are there any other objections?”

You hadn’t realized that your jaw had slackened until your mouth clammed-up shut yet again. “You… certainly covered the majority of it, sir.”

But that did little to ease the twisting in your gut.

It wasn’t over your own safety, no ~~who cared about that anyways? Certainly not you. This was _chaos_. It was **_adventure._** It was what you’d joined the First Order to be a part of~~. The unease warping your insides was for the stupid emo bucket that you still couldn’t figure out what to label. _He_ would care if you died. And knowing him, he would do something _stupid_ in retaliation and wind up getting thrown out a window, or eviscerated by a wayward branch, or _something_. And you couldn’t let that happen.

Snoke leaned back, looking very much like he wanted to rub his gnarled fingers into his temples until the skin caved beneath his knuckles ~~but _no_ , certainly he was above such human displays of frustration~~. “It is important that you remain at his side.”

“Sir,” you tried, nervous and unsure whether to touch upon the more… _recent_ developments to your _relationship_ with his student, “while I can understand the importance of standing by him as a medic and partner, surely the negatives outweigh my usefulness.”

Icy eyes watched you intently, but he said nothing so you continued.      

“I—We’re too close. It mars his judgement in battle. Kylo abandoned our mission on Vonak when I fell, and—”

“Did you expect him to let you die?”

You paused. “I…”

“Would you have preferred if he left you to your death?”

“I was an army doctor, not a field soldier—not entirely. But I know that the success of the mission takes precedent over the lives of individual troops.”

“That’s not an answer, child.”

You grit your teeth and he relaxed a bit, like he could laze back knowing he’d made the move that had won him the battle.

“Tell me, doctor. Do you know the mechanics of the Force? The Dark Side? The Light?”

“No, sir.”

“Emotion,” he said. “Emotion is the key to strength in the Force. Whether that be the control of one’s sentiment or the unrestrained release of it.”

You frowned, not sure you liked where this was going.

“The power of the Dark Side is strengthened by everything you bring out of him,” Snoke said, firm, “Raw emotion—jealousy, fear, _passion_. All things that draw on the power of the Force within him.”

 _But he’s already_ **_angry_** , you wanted to argue. _He’s already **passionate** and **afraid** and so many other things that certainly couldn’t be attributed to **you.**_ _There was the father he’d killed. And the mother he pretended not to miss even though he’d been so **upset** on her birthday. _

“Kylo Ren has always had trouble channeling his emotions rather than letting them fly free on a whim,” Snoke continued. “Angry as he may be, having command over that aggression is another matter entirely.” He shifted atop his throne at your grimace, clearly annoyed by your hesitance to cooperate. “Control comes with practice, and more importantly through channeling that passion by giving it purpose. Something _tangible_ , not just a childish hope or dream that has long since burrowed its way into his head. You are _here,_ doctor. Darth Vader himself was driven to the Dark Side and the greatest pinnacle of his power all in order to protect his wife. Why not then should his descendant follow that very path?”

_Because Darth Vader had **died.** _

He had abandoned the Emperor and flown to the aid of his tortured son. The legendary Sith had fallen for the sake of the very ‘love’ that Snoke was encouraging to bloom within Kylo’s own chest. 

And you didn’t want _anything_ like that to happen to him.

“Then at least this is something we see eye to eye on.” He stood, scarred lips twisting out of that severe frown and into something more placid. “Stand with him, and there is no reason for him to fall. Not if you are there to catch him. Now, _go_. Your ship is waiting for you, doctor.”

He turned and left you without another word.

.

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. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But alas, it was time once more for the great and powerful doctor that was you to swoop in and save the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I had a lot of trouble with this chapter for some reason and completely overhauled it like five separate times. So if anyone finds any weird spots or just glaring errors in general, please let me know so I can dive on in and fix it. 
> 
> Also Anime Boston was the perfect place to go if you're in the mood to hug lots and lots of Kylo Rens. 10/10 would recommend.

The Garroter’s ship was large and grey and altogether uninviting.

A _Resurgent_ -class Star Destroyer called the _Finalizer_ —a mighty beast that housed a crew of almost one hundred _thousand_. It was like an entire base in itself. You thought you may have been on it once, but you’d been busy trying to save Kylo Ren’s life during that visit so you hadn’t exactly had time to _marvel_ at the metal monster. Let alone get _lost_ in its bowels. You’d stayed near the med bay throughout the entirety of that journey, and now… Well, now you were ‘important.’ And that apparently meant you got to meander through the endlessly winding corridors like a _moron_.

Olin had caught you tromping through the echoing hallways with a crumpled map all but pressed to your nose as you tried to navigate the gargantuan vessel. The Knight had politely taken a hold of your elbow and steered you in the proper direction.

The War Room he’d led you to however was less than pleasant, and you almost ached to go back to wandering lost and dumb through the halls.

War councils were a queer sort of creature with which you had little experience. You were placed at Kylo’s right with an unfamiliar Captain to his left. The Knights were lined along the outer sphere of seats with a slew of high ranking officers settled opposite them. Hux, Phasma, and Lieutenant Mitaka were seated opposite you. The setup seemed… odd. Surely you weren’t so high ranking to receive a chair at one of the heads.

Hux spoke first.

“We’ve managed to track Luke Skywalker and his student to Balamak in the Mid-Rim. The girl was spotted alongside deserter FN-2187 by an outpost near Dorum.” A hologram sparked to life across the table and you watched as the galaxy contracted and spun until a teeny little green planet stood stark at the center. “We allied with Balamak long ago after its citizens were suppressed by the New Republic. It’s not an open affiliation,” Hux continued, “but it was broadcast widely enough to the recruits and Stormtroopers during conditioning that surely FN-2187 would know of it. The fact that the Resistance would risk an appearance there is troubling.”

“Balamak is an agricultural planet,” the Captain nearest to you frowned. “Underdeveloped. What use is it to the Resistance?”

Phasma spoke up, “During the Clone Wars, there was a communications jamming system set up on Balamak. It was destroyed but the parts may still be there.”

 “With the destruction of the Hosnian System, it’s no surprise that the Resistance would need to branch out for supplies,” the General hummed. “We can send a platoon to track them.”

“They won’t be there,” Kylo cut in, voice harsh and low from beneath his helmet. He said no more and you were sure Hux would debate him on his claim, but instead the ginger only nodded, terse, and continued on.

“We know the Resistance’s main base is stationed on D’Qar, but we’re not able to—”

The shimmering display before you expanded and softened but you kept staring at that little ball of green, even as it shrank and vanished amongst the glittering stars. Your brain huffed and puffed and kept on hissing like there was some itch there that you just couldn’t manage to scratch. _Agriculture_. Something about it. Certainly a destroyed communication center wouldn’t have many useful parts, especially if it was so old. But, _agriculture._ You dug and dug but couldn’t manage to unearth whatever it was that kept tickling you.

“—an attack on an outpost near Pressy’s Tumble. There’s a chance we could catch the pilot if we station troops near—”

You propped your chin up on your fist with a sigh and watched as the holographic galaxy continued to spin.

.

.

.

“That was _awful_.”

“Get used to it,” Jaina said. “War Councils are all the same.”

You groaned and trudged after her and the other equally dour Knights. Kylo trailed behind you, like a grumpy cat with hackles raised and teeth bared. Usually you stood strong by your lampshade’s side, sour mood or otherwise, but he seemed… Well, he certainly didn’t look like he’d made any progress overcoming his frustrations from earlier. And seeing as those grievances revolved around _you_ and your very presence on this ship, you had a feeling it would be best if you left him to his own devices. At least until his fingers stopped twitching towards his saber.

The Knights turned down a private corridor and you watched as one by one they broke off from the group and slipped into their designated quarters. You glanced at the set of numbers sprawled across the back of your hand—the ones Hux had shoved your way before running off to do whatever it was Generals did—and continued your march, eyes trailing over the rooms. _B09, B09…Where was B09?_ More and more of your doom companions disappeared until it was just you, the bucket, and a Knight of name unknown. Your gut began to churn. You _recognized_ this part of the hall. But… no. Certainly not. Even Hux wasn’t so—so ~~blunt? obnoxious? cruel? perverse?~~ _presumptuous._ Yeah. **That.**

The unnamed Knight turned to his own chambers with a curt and respectful nod of the head and you were left with none other than the dark menace himself.

Then—

**_B09._ **

And alas. The fuckboy was apparently all those things _and more._

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The gossip was going to flood the ship with all the strength of an ocean storm. The crashing waves would spread to the deepest recesses of the crew, leaving none untouched. And there would be whispers and rumors that for once _you **hadn’t**_ instigated, and you were going to _fucking **murder** that smug ginger **dead**. _

The door slid open with a _hiss_ and you gaped, not quite sure what to do.

“Are you just going to _stand_ there?”

_Forever and always._

He scoffed and stomped inside, black ~~dress~~ robes swirling in his wake. After a few unsatisfying moments of silent gawking that resulted in nothing but uncomfortably stiff feet, you slunk in after him.

It was very much the same as you remembered from your brief intrusion where you’d had to change his nasty bandages all those months ago, and at first you thought it was a joke, or a mistake, or perhaps an unpleasant mixture of the two. But further inspection saw all your belongings piled off in a corner and two of your blankets folded neatly at the foot of his bed.

You walked over and squished the corner of the plush fabric between your fingers.

Kylo’s helmet hit the floor with a _crack_ and he slouched forward to land on the mattress, gloved knuckles pressed hard into his temples.

“This isn’t going to work.”

 _Well then._ Certainly you were skeptical about this whole arrangement, but you weren’t being so _blunt_ about it. “It’s not my fault Hux has us shacking up together—”

“Not—” he waved to the room, exasperated, “— _this_. You shouldn’t _be_ here. On the _Finalizer._ With the Garroters.”

You sighed and plopped down next to him. “I know.”

Snoke’s words saturated your thoughts and your lips twisted. _Why not then should his descendant follow that very path?_ Because it was _stupid,_ that’s why. And don’t think you hadn’t noticed how the Supreme Leader had so _neatly_ skirted around the fact that Darth Vader’s wife had died _too_ in that fantastic scenario. Grooming your bond with his student only to cut you down seemed _exactly_ like the type of scheme he would try to pull. And it made you nervous—knowing you were working under someone who may very well have been raising you like a Bantha for slaughter.

“You _won’t_ be killed. I won’t allow it.”

Your mouth curled down further, though more from nerves than anger. And what would happen if Snoke _did_ intend to have you exterminated? What was your bucket supposed to do then? _Abandon the First Order? Kill his teacher?—_

“If it comes to that.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re not serious.”

He sighed, bone deep, and his hands moved to pull at his hair. “The Supreme Leader is my mentor, but I’m not blind.” The leather groaned as he fisted the dark locks at the base of his skull. “My father was right. Snoke is using me for my power. I can see that. But I won’t let him crush me.”

“So, what?” you squawked. “You crush him first?”

“Yes.” A pause. “If I have to.”

“And _how_ are you supposed to do that?”

Another heavy sigh. “It’s not something to think on. Not for a while at least. Until then, I carry out my mission.” He lifted his head. “My father deluded himself into thinking that the Supreme Leader seduced me to the Dark Side—that I was corrupted, that it wasn’t in me all along. He was a fool. And I’m going to finish what I started.”

_Killing the Jedi._

“Yes. Killing the Jedi.”

You huffed. _Back at square one then._ Well, if he was going to do it anyways…“I suppose that means I’m coming along for the ride then.” _Whether you really wanted to or otherwise._ You weren’t going to let him do it **_alone._**

Kylo frowned down at you. “It’s not safe.”

“It doesn’t seem like I’ll really be safe _anywhere_ to be fair. Besides,” you prodded at the tip of his boot with your own, “if you’re doing this, I’m going in too. It may come as a surprise to you, but you’re not the _only_ one here who’s allowed to be worried. At least _I_ run when faced with danger. _You_ dive in head first. Do you know how exhausting it is?” you puffed. “It’s like you don’t even bother to _pretend_ to be cautious.”

“Because unlike _you_ , **I** actually know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, hush.” You paused, head canted in a way that you were sure made you look more like an inquisitive hound dog than anything else. “So we have an agreement then.”

Brown eyes narrowed, confused. “About _what_.”

He really ought to learn how to keep up with your mental jumps. Especially considering the fact that he spent so much time curled up in your head. It should have come naturally at this point.

“You keep yourself safe and I’ll do the same.”

He blinked, slow, and turned on you with a huff. “Yes. Of course.”

“So it’s a deal.”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“For the last time, _yes_.”

You stuck up your pinky finger and he stared down at your offering, brow furrowed. You tapped the back of your hand pointedly against his once, twice. He rolled his eyes but a gloved finger wrapped snugly around yours nonetheless.

.

.

.

 _Nerfs_. You were being swarmed by Nerfs. Hundreds. _Thousands._ _No._ **A dozen**. Wait… forty-two? And did you say Nerfs? _Clearly_ , these were Tauntauns—very teeny ones, yes, and with all sorts of strange, colorful, wings. But they were warm and pressing against you, and— _oh_. A familiar, freckled, face hung in the fog of fur and disorientation. _Definitely not a Tauntaun_. _Thank goodness._  The world kept on flipping until the fuzzy pests dissolved into a singular, solid, form. The warm comfort of dream was slowly seeping from your limbs and your arms looped upwards to clasp around the neck of the body hovering over you.

The shadow of unconsciousness was fading and you sighed. The air that blew past your lips was— _cool?_ What the fuck?

You blinked awake blearily. There was faint light, dark hair, and…

 _Mint._ So, _so_ much mint.

You grinned. “You brushed your teeth.”

Kylo hummed in response and pressed you back into the mattress, hands tangled in your bedhead and lips moving languidly over yours. You sighed again, content, and—

 _Wait_.

 ** _You_** still hadn’t brushed your teeth.

The dark terror pulled away to drag his mouth against your throat and trail downwards along your collar bone. “Do you think I care?”

“You’re disgusting.”

Another noncommittal grunt and part of you wanted to argue that it definitely _could not_ have been pleasant to share air with you and your morning glory, but if he wasn’t going to gripe about it then you _certainly_ had no reason to complain either. Because _hello_. All the awesomeness of wakeup-call kisses _without the bad breath_. So you dug your fingers into that unnaturally amazing hair of his and let him go to town on your throat.

His mouth opened against your collarbone and you felt the warm press of his tongue as it swept along the skin there.

It was strange, but not unpleasant. Far from it actually. And you craned your neck back to give him more room. Physical affection tended to require at least two consenting parties, so you didn’t exactly have a lot of ‘experience’ with… well, _this._ Like any other doctor, you’d had patients who were so overwhelmed with gratitude that they _thought_ there were in love with you, and yes, there had been one overly enthusiastic woman who’d practically tried to eat your face, but you’d never done _this_. Occasional and awkward pecks on the cheek from nervous wards were one thing, Kylo Ren burying himself into your throat and leaving a slew of glaring red marks in his wake was another situation _entirely_.

His teeth caught on the skin just below your ear and _yup._ _Definitely not unpleasant_.

You steered him back to your mouth and desperately tried to recall what was supposed to happen next. You hadn’t poured over all those horribly written and even more terribly executed erotica novels during your teenage years ~~and more recent ones too, okay. There, you’d admitted it~~ for _nothing._ But all those ladies had just _known_ what to do. ‘ ~~Blushing virgins’ your ass~~. So you probably shouldn’t think on it too hard. And oh God, he could still _hear_ you. Oh no. Quick. Think about—about—

_Asparagus—Chocolate—Oysters—Bananas._

_No._

**_Bad._ **

_Maybe if you just—or if you…no, that wouldn’t work—but maybe—_

“Stop _panicking.”_

You opened your eyes and squinted up at him, apologetic. “Sorry.”

You just… You didn’t want to mess up this whole _whatever this was,_ and—well… you cringed as you thought of all the times he’d darted out of your room after you’d spouted something uncomfortable. The bucketless-bucket sighed and his elbows came up to box your head in against the pillow and give him a bit of leverage.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You arched a brow, disbelieving. _Oh really?_ Even if you started laying down the dick jokes? Because he’d taken that **_so_** well the first time. You’d spent an _hour_ picking oatmeal out of your hair—

“If you haven’t _noticed,_ a lot has changed between now and then.”

This was true.

But you were an anxious little creature of habit. And until very recently your lowbrow commentary would send him flying in the opposite direction. You just needed a bit more time to acclimate yourself.

Just as you were getting ready to drag him back down to work on that whole ‘acclimation’ thing, clear brown eyes clouded over—out of focus—and his head swiveled around so that he could glare at the door.

“Hux is coming.”

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me. Give me five more minutes.”

A rough kiss was pressed to the corner of your lips and he was up and out of bed and reaching for his mask. You lolled back against the pillows, irritated. _Stupid Hux. Stupid meetings. Stupid missions._ You rubbed the heels of your palms into your eyes. It was no fair. Sure, there were people out there who were starving and dying and all other sorts of horrendous things, but _you_ were being _cock blocked._ You’d heard of that whole ‘bros before hoes’ ideology. You’d just always assumed that Hux was the ho and _you_ were the bro. Apparently not. 

Kylo scoffed—a rumbling metallic huff that honestly sounded just a teensy bit ridiculous.

He gestured pointedly to your haphazard pile of belongings stacked off in the corner.

“Unpack your things. I’ll be back later.”       

You spent a few minutes lazing around after he departed to go meet up with his _boyfriend_ before hauling yourself up to start exploring ~~his~~ your new quarters. It was certainly grand—everything new and sleek and high-end. Far too much black though. Black floors. Black walls. Black furniture. You wondered if it worked as some kind of strange camouflage—that if he held still enough, he’d merge with this strange habitat of his and disappear.

You peeked through one door after another. _Bathroom. Closet. Storage. And…_ You paused, curious, and leaned further over the threshold to get a better look. The room beyond was small but seemed almost cavernous in its simplicity. A leather chair sat in the center—stiff, but well used. Across from that stood a triangular pedestal, and perched atop its smooth, dark, face was… _Was that a—a melted **mask**?_ You blinked, once, twice, and turned away with a shrug. The drama queen could decorate how he liked.

You retreated back to the main room to sort through your belongings. Just because you had no issue with the resident lampshade bedazzling the dark chambers how he liked didn’t mean that _you_ weren’t going to make the room your own. You had books to stack. Clothing to disperse. Even the occasional trinket to fiddle with.  

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, mindlessly flipping through one of your old text books on herbalism, when the door began to hiss and beep and whine like some sort of hideous dying animal. You ambled over to open it, cautious.

A Knight stood on the other side of the threshold—the one you’d saved from bleeding out on Lothal.

He nodded politely. “Kylo sent me the fetch you.”

Joy.

“Another meeting?”

“Yes.”

You bit back a groan because _how many times were they going to make you sit through these damn war councils_? _Throughout the **entire war**_? ~~Oh Heavens, probably.~~ Wasn’t once enough? It’s not like you were contributing anything. You glanced down once more at the aging tome still resting in your hands, eyes scanning the drawing at the bottom of the page and the blurb of text beneath it over and _over_. You sighed and dog-eared the corner before returning the book to its pile.

.

.

.

“The girl was spotted most recently on Broest.” The hologram spun and grew. “FN-2187 and a squad of Resistance troops were with her, but none of our informants reported seeing Skywalker among them. That does not, however, mean that he wasn’t there.”

You stared at the slow-spinning, pink-speckled, planet. It was _green,_ just like Balamak. And you would have thought that was what might set you off. But no, it was the _pink_. **_Pink_**. Like—

Your hand shot into the air

The council turned to you with arched brows and judgement in their eyes. You felt your arm falter for a moment but **_no_** , _no way._ It had clicked. The itch had been _scratched_. You held your hand high and firm.

Hux looked amused. “Do you have something to add, doctor?”

“Where else have they been seen?”

He looked down at his tablet. “Over the past month, there have been sightings in Chandrila and Salliche. All Agriworlds, and all brief stints lasting no more than a few days.”

_Aha. **Confirmation**. _

“They’re not after parts. At least, not for building. They’re looking for a plant.”

Hux steepled his fingers and you felt all two-dozen pairs of eyes resting on you, curious. “Go on.”

You cleared your throat. “I think they might be trying to find Nysillin. It’s an incredibly potent herb and one of the strongest anodynes out there, at least that I know of. But it’s rare— _very_ rare—practically impossible to obtain, at least in any legal fashion. I studied it for a while when I was training as a surgeon. I only took an interest in it because it can be used to aid cell growth, particularly for cells that have been dead for _years._ Most people don’t know about it, more a myth than anything…”

You paused. All inquisitive gazes were still trained on your babbling self, but all traces of the scrutiny swirling within them had vanished.

“Someone must be hurt, or dying, or at the very least very, very sick. Something must have happened. And they’re trying to save them. But they don’t know where the plant is or how to get it, so they’re bouncing around from planet to planet trying to find it.”

“Without the Hosnian System there to provide them with aid, the Resistance would naturally run into supply shortages, particularly medical ones,” Phasma added. “It makes sense.

You nodded. “I knew I recognized Balamak. Back when I was still in training, there was a rumor that a group of farmers were trying to grow Nysillin across a band of Agriworlds in the Mid-Rim. Balamak was one of those planets. It was huge—unprecedented—and so many physicians were in an uproar over it. But it _was_ a rumor, nothing more.”

Hux frowned, though not unhappily—more from thought. “They’re checking all of the worlds where it was reported that Nysillin was being grown.”

“Exactly,” you nodded. “Nysillin is valuable and _expensive_. They probably wanted to avoid getting it directly from the source if possible, but sooner or later they’re going to realize that the offshoots are a bust and go for the real thing.”

“So to find Skywalker,” Kylo spoke up, low, “we have to find the Nysillin. And we have to beat them to it.”

There were a few murmurs of displeasure from around the room because if the Resistance was already having so much difficulty hunting down the herb, then how much better would the First Order fare? Especially when their opponent had been given such a massive head start.

But alas, it was time once more for the great and powerful doctor that was you to swoop in and save the day. You planted your hands on the table and the hologram of the galaxy spun beneath your fingertips. You pointed to the swirling mass of stars that made up the Outer Rim.

“Felucia,” you said. “That’s where they’ll be. That’s where you’ll find the Jedi.”

.

.

.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skywalker.
> 
> Holy fuck.
> 
> You weren’t touching that with a ten foot pole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. This chapter was tedious to write. Serious/darker things take some transitioning. My heart wanted fluff and comedy, but the rest of me realized 'there is no valid way on Earth that you can make this fluffy'
> 
> so... yeah. 
> 
> Enjoy the (sort of?) angst

Felucia was just as disgustingly muggy as you’d expected it to be.

While the gravity overall pressed more lightly on your shoulders, the air itself was oppressive enough to squash you into the mud. Heat you could tolerate. Tropical planets were a daydream. Felucia was _not_ a ‘tropical’ planet. ~~At least not in relation to any of the more _positive_ connotations _you_ knew~~. It was a fetid ball of green goo that had little to offer but swamped shoes and a hazy brown fog that clung to the atmosphere like some kind of awful fashion statement.  

If the Resistance had any sense about them at all, they’d stay far away from this stinking heap of sludge.

Fortunately for you and your merry band of murderers however, that didn’t seem to be the case.

Kylo moved to stand beside you, head craned towards the canopy above.

“The Force is strong here. I can feel it.”

You shifted and the heel of your boot sunk into a particularly thick gob of moss with a _squelch_. It took you a solid ten seconds to wrench it free.

“There are records of tribes here that are Force-sensitive,” Phasma said. “There is documentation from the days of the Clone Wars and the Empire that the trauma to the ecosystem left it ‘twisted.’ The New Republic managed to reclaim it, but the tribes and planet itself remain—”

“Dark,” Kylo finished, almost wistful.

“If the planet itself promotes the Dark Side,” Jaina frowned, “will the Resistance really risk coming here?”

At this, thirty-plus pairs of eyes turned to you.

“Nysillin is the most powerful herb I know of,” you shrugged. “If they need it, they’ve exhausted all other options.”

“Then we find it,” Kylo ordered, firm, and cast that bucket-glare around the Unit—daring anyone to object. Eventually that glower went full circle and wound up back on you. “Do you have any idea where it could be?”

“Well, certainly not anywhere near here,” you said sourly, staring in distaste at the dense jungle of rubber-esque plants. “It has to be farmed. And in a very specific fashion.”

“Some place open then,” he surmised.

“Right.”

“We move out then. South—towards the fields.”

And so the Garroter Unit slowly began to drudge its way through the muck—bulky packs slung over shoulders and weapons trained firmly on the tree line enclosing them. You stared forlornly at the lampshade’s command shuttle—an _Upsilon_ -something or other that may have not been the _prettiest_ ship of them all, but had a nice, chilly, interior. Sure, you understood **_why_** you couldn’t just fly the black behemoth all willy-nilly across the planet, but even accounting for ‘stealth,’ and ‘security,’ and ‘ _advantage_ ,’ it was still hard to walk away from it.

With a heavy sigh you turned and followed the herd.

The dark menace kept a slow, even, stride so as to not out-pace you, and even with the feverish heat making it nigh impossible to keep comfortably close to anyone, you wouldn’t be lying if you said you appreciated the way he stuck to your side.

Your eyes trailed over the unnatural looking flora for a moment before falling back to your companion.

_You’re putting too much faith in me._

You climbed cautiously over a felled, moss-devoured, tree trunk.

“Is that so?” came the low, grumbling reply—practically a snort.

“I’m serious.” You had close to no sense of where to go from here, and on top of that compacted mass of worry, this entire expedition in itself was based on a _hunch. **Your**_ hunch, to make things worse. You had no better an idea of what to expect than anyone else. And you were certainly much less experienced on the field.

Your boot caught on a massive root and Kylo snagged your arm before you could face plant to the forest floor.

“Thank you.”

He hummed and you sighed, blowing a strand of matted, sweat-saturated, hair from your eyes. _What I said still stands_.

Another downed branch came into view, stretched wide across the path, and this time he grabbed onto you before you could bother trying to step over it on your own.

“You’re doing fine.”

“I don’t even know what I’m _doing_.” _What if I’m **wrong.**_

“You’re not _wrong_. I can sense it.”

Your brows drew up, curious. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but that is _not_ how the Force works.”

“That **_is_** how the Force works,” he snapped.

“…I see.”

Again that helmet tilted back towards the winding mess of foliage above. It was strange, almost like an animal scenting the air. “I can feel it all around us. Something is going to happen.”

“Something good hopefully.”

The stiff-lipped silence that followed was an answer in itself. Whatever swirling optimism that had managed to remain within your chest slowly began to deflate—like one of those ugly balloon animals that were always sold at festivals to equally ugly children.

This is what you wanted, right? Excitement. _Chaos._ It was just… _just…_ You thought of Olin and Jaina, of Millicent and her stupid ginger owner, of your _bucket._ And, sure, they aggravated you sometimes and left you wishing a gruesome demise upon them and all their progeny, but you didn’t **_actually_** want them to die. Not even Hux. ~~Okay. Maybe Hux~~. And while blood-pumping ruckus was all well and good, people could get _hurt_. _People you **actually cared** about. _Some would claim your charming personality was the reason you had so few friends, but no, clearly _this_ was the rationale for your lack of companionship. This ‘caring’ thing was _awful_.

The hold on your arm tightened to a point just shy of discomfort and you glanced down at the gloved fingers wrapped snuggly in your sleeve.

“It will be fine.”

He sounded so unconvinced by the words coming out of his own mouth that you wondered why he even bothered to lie at all.

“I will _make it_ fine,” he amended.

You sighed and he helped you maneuver your way over another gargantuan trunk.

You could deal with your ‘care’ crises another day. You had learned long ago that it was best to let the blows come one by one rather than prepare for the entire barrage at once. And if you wanted a clear head for whatever confrontation was surely coming, then you had to set emotional turmoil on the back burner. Besides, there were more important things to worry about than ‘feelings.’ The Resistance was lurking in the wings, just waiting to make their grand entrance. And it would be ever so rude to keep them waiting.

.

.

.

The locals were, unsurprisingly, far from thrilled at your arrival.

The Felucians were barely four and a half feet high, with pinkish skin and weathered, reptilian, faces that spoke of long hours hunched over blossoming crops rather than weapons. They were the absolute _farthest_ thing from intimidating you had ever seen and you actually found them quite adorable.

Naturally, they shied away in terror as the Garroter Unit marched through—two captains, four medics, twenty-three stormtroopers, seven Knights, and a partridge in a pear tree. ~~Well. Perhaps not that last part.~~ _And Kylo Ren was in control of them all._ As much as you really did care about the walking disaster, that wasn’t exactly the most _reassuring_ of thoughts. Especially since it seemed you’d be dealing with such nervous nellies.

Sure, he could intimidate like anything. Horror was his forte. But these people needed to be _rationalized_ with, not bullied.

The moment he inhaled, ready to open his big, fat mouth and unleash a barrage of Hell knew what, you just _knew_ things weren’t going to go well.

They’d be scared stiff. They’d refuse to cooperate. They could _fight you_ ~~or try to at least~~. Worse yet they could call for help. Who knew who ~~or what~~ would come to their aid? The planet was supposed to be ‘alive’ with the Force or something, right? You couldn’t picture that working in your favor whatsoever.

“ _Excuse me_!”

Kylo swiveled on you and the rest of the Unit took a hesitant step backwards. You lifted your hand in a polite little wave and ignored the ‘murder-death-murder’ glare doing its best to roast your very bones.

“ _What do you think you’re_ —”

You stepped around him.

“Hello!”

One of the Felucians hesitantly inched forward, thick rake held aloft in shaky hands as if he could bludgeon you with it if need be. “H-Hello?”

You took another, bounding, four steps past Kylo Ren and straight to the farmers. “Yes! Hello! It’s lovely to meet you…?”

“Casiss,” he filled in, nervous.

You softened your smile and locked your hands behind your back. “Well, it’s an honor, sir. We’re from the First Order. May I speak with you?”

The group of Felucians immediately broke out into an unpleasant chorus of horrified whispers and squawks.

“What does the First Order want with us?” Casiss asked, voice steady even as his tiny, red, eyes went wide with fear. “We’ve stayed out of the war! We want nothing to do with it!”

“No, no,” you corrected gently. “I apologize if we made a poor first impression. You see…” You shifted and tilted your chin down, submissive. “I’m a medical woman myself, sir. I’ve always loved the more tactile side of the practice though, you know? Machines can never compete with a good set of hands and the proper ingredients. And speaking of ingredients, your Nysillin—why, it’s incredible. Nothing can compare.”

“You came to take our Nysillin?” he spluttered.

“Heaven’s no!” you gaped, aghast, and pressed a hand over your heart in horror. “We came to protect it!”

His scaly, pink brow scrunched unpleasantly and you could make out the other farmers starting to whisper to each other in confusion.

“Protect it? From who?”

At this you stared over at him, eyes gone wide and sad. “While I— _we_ —may respect that you deserve full compensation for all your hard work with these beautiful plants, not everyone out there does, sir.”

Casiss hesitated. “The… Resistance you mean?”

You nodded, slow and somber. “Yes, sir. We received word that the Resistance has been raiding neighboring planets over the past few weeks looking for Nysillin. It’s only a matter of time before they come directly to the source. And they’re very desperate. Who _knows_ what they’d do to obtain it. They certainly don’t have the funds to acquire it legally.”

“You’re here to _protect_ us?” It sounded more timid than suspicious, which meant you were making at least a teensy bit of headway.

“Yes, sir.” _Tear? No tear? **No**_ **.** No tear. It would be too much. “As you’ve said, your people have stayed out of the war. You’ve done no harm to anyone, so it seems completely unfair for you to suffer any abuse at the hands of the Resistance. Their fight is with _us,_ not you. And the First Order will not allow _innocents_ to be punished for our battles.”

He shifted back and forth on his too-large feet. _So close. You were so, **so** , close you could **taste it.** Just one more push. _

“We require nothing from any of you, sir,” you said. “We’ve brought our own food, our own supplies, our own manpower. And we ask nothing in return, only that you let us shelter in your domain so that we can have the upper hand when the ambush comes.”

“I…”

“Is the Resistance really coming here?” another of the Felucians piped in, jittery and clearly already regretting that she’d spoken up at all.

You nodded, solemn, but it was your bucket that spoke up.

“Yes. In no more than a few days.”

“And you really want nothing from us in return?” Casiss asked.

You smiled and could practically taste the saccharine sweetness of it on your tongue. “Your people are in danger because of our war. We only wish to right our wrong, sir.”

.

.

.

“That was reckless.”

You shrugged and fiddled with the ties at your shoulders. “You and I have very difference definitions of ‘reckless.’ Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

Casiss and his merry band of short farmers had provided you all with small huts—barely more than holes carved into mounds of packed dirt. But it was cool inside, or at the very least cooler than the rest of the planet seemed to be. Though still not chilly enough to keep from sweating through your armor. And you’d be damned if you planned on sleeping through the night bound tight in black plating and marinating in your own, stinky, juices.

You tugged at the clasps in irritation. _How had you even managed to get into this thing?_ “You could have stopped me if you really wanted to.” You tapped your temple pointedly. “You knew everything I was going to say before I’d said it.”

“And if they’d refused to listen to that entire song and dance routine?”

“Then you would have _bullied_ them,” you said, yanking roughly at the ties once more. “And then they _definitely_ wouldn’t have listened. Contrary to whatever it is you seem to believe, I _do_ get how fear works, you know. If you’d threatened them they would have conceded, but they would have given our position up to the Resistance the second they were able.”

Kylo walked up behind you and swatted your hands out of the way so he could reach forward to undo the clasps. You watched his fingers work, curious. ~~So that's how that tied. Diagonal clasps? What was the point of that? This was all too confusing~~. The first layer of armor fell away with a creaking groan and bone-deep sigh that left you drained and content. _Christ on a cracker_ , you could **_breathe_** again.

He scoffed and moved to work on the clasps at your side. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Right. Because you’re not dramatic at all.”

“I’m not _dramatic_.”

You stared him down, incredulous. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

A firm glower proved that, no, it didn’t seem he was.

_Oh, the poor dear._

The remaining pieces of your ensemble came apart bit by bit until you were able to lounge comfortably across the sleep mat—nothing in your way but a light shirt and shorts. It was _heavenly_. Sure, there was still sweat pooling in all sorts of unpleasant niches of your body, but at least said nooks and crannies were exposed to _air flow_. You stretched across the stiff mat until your joints popped and your muscles ached with strain.

You glanced up and _oh._

The dark menace had shucked the top layer of his complex ensemble—hood and surcoat now piled haphazardly by his feet on the ground. _~~Gasp.~~_ ~~Only ** _two_** layers? What was the world _coming_ to? Pure scandal, that’s what it was. ~~ He was halfway through undoing his tunic when he paused and his hands fell away. You sighed and made a show of reaching up to cover your eyes.

“I won’t look.”

He plopped down next to you with a _thump_ and you glared at him through your fingers. Finally, he sighed and slipped the tunic into the mass of black fabric accumulating in the corner. You stared pointedly at the thick, pleated, sleeves still very much in place. He made no move to remove the garment, only sprawled across the mat with a heavy sigh. You gaped over at him, open mouthed.

 “You are going to _broil_.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You wear less to sleep _normally._ ”

No response. You rolled your eyes and flopped back against the mat. Maybe he was uncomfortable resting in foreign territory. Maybe he just didn’t like the idea of being in any ~~even partial~~ state of undress when there wasn’t an identity-sensitive metal door in between him and the rest of the world. You understood that you supposed. Kind of. _But_ —then he flung an arm over your waist like he always did and pulled you back into an _inferno_.

And **_that_** was where you drew the line.

You pushed his arm away like it’d burned you ~~which it sort of had to be fair~~ and scooched your much cooler self away from him and the heat he was giving off in _waves_.

“What are you doing?” The **_get back here_** was left unsaid, but you heard it quite clearly nonetheless.

“Basic chemistry,” you supplied, pillowing your head onto your crossed arms and still trying to understand how any _healthy_ person could be that _hot_ and not _die_. “Heat always travels from warm to cold. And seeing as _I_ am the ‘cold’ in this scenario, I am _not_ looking forward to that.” You closed your eyes. “You may be willing to fry to death, but I’d like to remain uncooked for as long as possible, thank you very much.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _You’re_ being ridiculous.”

You were about five seconds away from ‘I know you are but what am I’ when he sat up with an irritated snarl and all but tore off that last layer. Then he was hauling you back against him and you sighed, content. It was still far too warm to be this close, but he’d made his concession, so you would too.

“See. Was that so bad?”

Naturally, he did not reply. _Sore loser, this one._

A few minutes passed in silence and if it weren’t for the fact that you were pressed so close to his bare chest that you could quite literally _feel_ every uneven breath he took and how his heart had yet to slow, you would think he’d fallen asleep.

“What you did today…” he said at last, quiet. “That was…” He cleared his throat. “Good job.”

You huffed but your lips quirked into a soft smile. You twisted around to peck his cheek.

“Thank you.”

.

.

.

Three days passed in horrid monotony and with even worse weather. ~~How did any creature _live_ like this? ~~Three days of lazing around, too hot to train and too jittery to just lie there. So you paced. Or stalked. Three days of polite Felucians who seemed to find your company shockingly enjoyable. Three days of questionable fungus foods and iridescent water that could _not_ have been natural, but somehow was.

Three days until the Resistance appeared on a fleet of three small ships and stormed the farm.

It was both far too much time and not nearly enough.

‘Stormed’ was perhaps the wrong word to describe their arrival. More accurately, they landed, disembarked from their vessels, and were immediately apprehended by your Unit. That was when the ‘storm’ part of it began.

The Resistance seemed hesitant to bomb the shit out of you when there were so many innocent Felucians in the way, running around like lunatics and screeching their heads off. So that was good. You played your part well enough, herding them to their homes and promising the keep them safe and all that trash. Casiss grabbed hold of your arm as you went to join the fray and asked very worriedly ~~bless his little heart~~ that you keep yourself safe. You made all the obligatory promises and returned to the battle, blaster in hand and armor ready to save your unlucky hide.

At first the skirmish seemed like nothing special—just people shooting one another in a variety of ways and scrambling for safety. But then you _heard_ it.

It was nothing like the familiar, dark, rumble that you’d grown so accustomed to—the one that sent Stormtroopers scuttling and induced panic attacks all throughout the First Order’s financial department. _No_. This was airy and light. And _sharp_.

You knew Kylo’s lightsaber almost as well as the rest of him. It _was_ him in a way.

The green and blue sabers swirling through the air were _different._ And the hands that held them were too.

Those were _Jedi_.

There was a girl and a man. The girl you knew of well enough, and the man. Well. That had to be—

Kylo’s saber erupted in a tempest of crimson sparks and the blades screamed against each other like wild beasts, lighting their wielders faces in red in green.

_Skywalker._

Holy _fuck._

You weren’t touching _that_ with a ten foot pole.

“Doctor! _Down!”_

You ducked and blaster fire lanced through the air. A gaggle of Resistance troops flew backwards off their feet and you surged back up, weapon at the ready. Whoever had made those silly rules about not kicking someone when they were down had clearly never stepped foot on an actual battle field. Or perhaps it had been one of those do-gooders who believed everyone deserved a fighting chance. Well, you were neither of those things. So you aimed your blaster and fired.

You jolted forward in shock when a bolt struck you across the back. The armor absorbed the most of it, but it still threw you off balance well enough. You swiveled on your attempted murderer, incensed. The poor man looked wholly unprepared for you to stagger so quickly back to your feet and take aim at _him_. He managed to lunge out of the way with just in time for your shot to graze his arm rather than his _face_ , but he drew back with a pained hiss all the same. You shot again and the bolt speared his shoulder, cutting through the raggedy leather jacket draped over it.

His dark eyes widened—not only in fear, but _recognition—_ and _that_ threw you for a second. Long enough for him to duck out of the way of your next shot.

“Finn!”

_Vroom._

The light of it was practically _blinding_ and its high pitched wail bounced painfully around your skull.

You didn’t dodge so much as _fall,_ but either way the lightsaber arched over your head rather than _through_ it. Then it was coming back down and you rolled out of the way, kicking up dirt and dust and all other sorts of things that had both you and your attacker hacking and choking. You aimed your blaster and fired once, twice, and she blocked both. _Goddamn **Jedi**_. Clear, brown, eyes scrunched up in confusion and discomfort and you **_remembered._** _Loud thoughts, loud thoughts_. So you began mentally screaming any and every word you could think up. Kylo was used to it—he _knew_. But _she_ didn’t. You screamed and screamed and for a moment she looked overwhelmed—halfway to doubling over and eyes screwed shut in pain, but then leather jacket was calling her name “Rey! Rey! REY!” and she surged forward with a roar. Her saber _screeched_.

Then the two of you were grabbed by invisible hands and hurled in opposite directions.  

You landed in the dirt with an _oof_ and the Jedi slammed into a tree. She dropped to the ground and for a moment you thought that was it, but then Miss Tri-Bun heaved herself up on shaking arms, sweat and blood caking her brow. The lightsaber came to life once more in her clenched fist, tearing a hole into the earth beneath her.

But this time, your dark Knight stood between the growling weapon and you.

The familiar snarl of his own saber put you at ease.

“ _Stay away from her_.” Low, cold, and blacker than pitch. A fractured shiver danced its way up your spine.

“ _You_.” Rey spat. “You’re a **_monster_**.”

True enough. But this monster _cared_ about you. And that was all _you_ cared about.

So when they clashed blades, you pushed and _pushed_. Your thoughts flowed over Kylo’s like foam on an ocean wave, but they _crashed_ into the girl with all the strength of a tsunami, and finally— ** _finally_** _—_ you were starting to understand why Snoke seemed to think you’d be so useful. Her arms shook and gave way and within seconds she was on the defensive, just barely managing to parry his blows and yours. The crossguard of his saber caught her shoulder and she wheeled back and away, but he was on her again and again, crackling blade snagging fabric, hair, skin—

Then another bought of blaster fire caught you in your armored side and you forced yourself to your feet and back into the fray.

You shot and shot and looked over at Kylo whenever you could. He seemed to be doing more than fine even without you there to mentally cripple his opponent, but seriously, what else were you expecting? He was **_amazing_.**

Leather-Jacket was being obnoxious now, screaming “Rey! Rey! Rey!” over and _over_ again like it would do any good. You shot at him three more times, for good measure, but he managed to dodge the worst of _all_ of it and you were really starting to get annoyed with him. You planted your feet firm in the dirt and aimed because you were _not_ going to miss him again and _whoosh_. Another invisible set of hands tossed you aside.

You rubbed at your aching bottom and looked up in surprise when a high pitched buzzing filled your ears. The hand attached to the brilliant green saber was all mechanical, but it was the eyes of your assailant that caught you. Heavy and blue and so, so _sad_.

 _Luke Skywalker_.

If he was surprised that your thoughts bounced around so easily in his head, he didn’t show it. Or perhaps he was like Snoke—accustomed to building walls so high that even your obnoxiously loud brain couldn’t make the leap over them.

The tip of his lightsaber stayed level with your chin but you knew—you could see it clear as day in those sad, sad eyes—he wasn’t going to kill you. He didn’t want to kill _anyone_.

Kylo’s lightsaber came down with a roar and Luke turned to block it. If your bucket fought with grace, then Skywalker hardly fought at all. It looked absolutely _effortless._ You scrambled back from the dueling heroes and hauled yourself to your feet. You breathed in, high on adrenaline, and observed the chaos.

Stormtroopers and Resistance officers alike littered the ground. There had been more of them then there were of you. But even so—

Your eyes widened.

They were retreating. One of their commanders was calling for a fall back. Injured troops were being carted onto their ships and those who remained standing were slowly inching their way back and away from the battle.

_They were withdrawing._

You were _winning._

**_Vroom._ **

Kylo’s helmet split with a _crack_ that seemed to reverberate through your very being. He’d dropped to the ground, panting and holding his face. _No_. Skywalker stood over him, like an avenging spirit. The old Jedi didn’t want to kill anyone—he _didn’t_. But that didn’t mean he **_wouldn’t_** _._

He looked up, blade raised, and eyes so horribly sad—

You shot once. The blaster bolt lanced straight through his side and plowed on through to explode against a tree behind him. And you were pushing and screaming so loud and so strong you could feel your teeth aching with it.

_Away. Away. Get **away** from him. _

The next bolt was deflected easily enough, but you could make out the way his brow tugged down, the uncomfortable tightness around his eyes. He stepped back and almost seemed to falter. Leather-Jacket was calling for him, a haggard and near-unconscious Rey in his arms. You could see the burns from here—where crimson plasma had bit into skin.

He lifted a hand and you and Kylo were shoved back and back _and back_ until you were all but swallowed by the forest at your rear. By the time you managed to untangle your feet and claw your way out of the undergrowth, the Jedi were gone.

.

.

.

The Garroters were rushed back to Kylo Ren’s command shuttle faster than you could hope to keep up.

You bustled to and fro, trying to see to everyone and everything. You were halfway through packing a gaping _hole_ in a Stormtrooper’s side with gauze when Captain Phasma, haggard and worn, came to your side.

“Lord Ren requires your presence.”

“He’s fine,” you said. And it was true. You’d torn off his mask the second the Resistance had fled and checked him over again and again to make sure he was all in one, functional, piece. The slash to his face was superficial—barely managing to get through the metal and hadn’t even _touched_ the skin beneath. “Two of the medics were gunned down. We need all the help we can get—”

“ ** _Ren_** _needs_ you.”

You paused, hands lowering slow from the completed bandage job.

“Of course.”

She nodded and you made your way to the small room Kylo had claimed as a makeshift hideaway. You knocked once before slipping inside.

“Is something the mat—”

His arms were around you in an instant—crushing you against him and all but knocking the air straight from your lungs. You weren’t even sure it could be considered an _embrace_. It was too tight—too desperate and too possessive. You waited patiently, burrowing your face into his chest as he clung and clung. But minutes passed and he still wasn’t letting go. Something was _wrong_.

You craned your head back and jolted in shock.

 ** _Yellow_**.

His eyes were _yellow_.

“Kylo—”

“He was going to kill you,” he hissed. “ _Skywalker_.”

You shifted, unnerved, and unable to look away from that spiteful, golden, gaze. “He wasn’t going to kill me—”

“He would have!” he snarled. “He saw who you were—what you are _to me_ —and still he would have killed you. My uncle would have _killed_ you.”

“ _Uncle_?” you spluttered, dazed.

His head fell forward and he buried his face into your shoulder. “I won’t let him kill you.”

You reached up with a heavy sigh to card your fingers through his sweat-matted hair. _The **Skywalkers.** Of **course** he was related to the goddamn Skywalkers. Everything and anything could be traced back to that fucking family. _ Another sigh. “I know you won’t.”

_Silence._

“If it’s any consolation…” you began, tentative. He lifted his head from your shoulder. “I did manage to shoot him. If that, you know, makes you feel better.”

His head fell back to your neck with an exasperated huff, but in the moment that he’d looked up at you, his eyes had been _brown_. And that was all you cared about.

.

.

.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, like any good scientist, you decided to test this new theory. And this time, you knew well enough to keep Eve as far from your hypothesis as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. The end of the semester is upon us and the world is caving in on itself as all the shit I procrastinated on way back when is popping up again like the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. It doesn't help that I scrapped and rewrote this chapter half a dozen times because so many of you have been asking on it for so long and it needed to be PERFECT and ugh. Writing is hard.
> 
> Either way, enjoy this long ass, fucking chapter. 
> 
> (yes. that is a pun.)

Hepatitis. Cirrhosis. Weils. Thalassemia.

_Yellow, yellow, yellow._

You turned to the next page with a bit more force than was strictly necessary—irritated.

 ** _Everything_** had to do with the sclera, and therefore provided absolutely _zero_ insight into the problem at hand. Yellow irises just simply... _weren't._ Or at the very least, there were no known medical causes for the sudden appearance of demonic, golden eyes. And that was what troubled you. Because if it wasn't a physical ailment, you couldn't _fix it_. And you were supposed to be able to fix _anything_.

You plowed through three more chapters on Jaundice before tossing the book to the side. You propped yourself up against the cold, ebony wall and scrubbed your palms into your eyes.

You had to take a step backwards. Basic philosophy—'Ockham's Razor' and all that. The simplest explanation was most often the correct one. You could stare at paragraph after paragraph of symptom analyses until your eyes dried and dropped from your skull, and the solution would still elude you. It wasn't your brain, it wasn't the medicine. If you were getting all the wrong answers, then clearly you were just looking in all the wrong places.

You dug through your heap of old text books until you reached the very bottom of the stack where the remnants of your gen ed requirements lay, slowly decomposing. You gracefully unearthed the least-utilized tome of all.

_Theology._

Such a joy.

You cracked open the novel tentatively, mindful of dust and other unpleasantries that all age-old books seemed to carry with them. Carefully you skimmed the table of contents. Surely it had to be— _aha!_ There it was. Who would’ve thought it could be so simple? ~~Well, clearly _you_ had, seeing as you were the one who had come up with the idea to check the book in the first place. But that wasn’t the point.~~ You fished for a pen and pad. You hadn’t taken notes by hand since, well, _ever_ , but desperate times called for semi-inconvenient measures. You flipped through the yellowing pages and began to read. 

.

.

.

Long, long, ago when you were still a bright eyed and bushy tailed medical student, you had spent a few months researching under the tutelage of a lovely woman who you only remembered as ‘Professor Xan.’ One day Professor Xan had pulled you aside and very politely tore your latest report to shreds, both in the physical and verbal sense. She had tried to impress upon you that a good hypothesis required further validation—peer support. You certainly couldn’t just pour your own ideas onto paper and expect them to stick. She had deferred you for another semester and you had snuck a mild hallucinogenic into her tea that had her drooling and sobbing all through her afternoon board meeting.

Career sabotage aside, Professor Xan had really had a point.

So you loaded your neat little compilation of notes into your arms and marched your way to the infirmary.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking if you think it’s _bad_.”

“How can power be bad?”

Alen and Eve were pleasant ~~sort of,~~ and both were competent enough to earn your stamp of approval. And that in itself was a near impossible feat. You’d met the pair only briefly before the stint on Felucia, but if anyone on this ugly ship could help you fine-tune your hypothesis, it was the only other remaining medics of the Garroter Unit.

“Of course power can be bad,” Alen retorted before shifting uneasily under his companion’s cool glower.

“Not in this scenario it’s not,” Eve said, bland as ever.

While Alen was a spluttering mess who rarely managed to get a word in edge wise, Eve simply kicked up her feet and dropped diction like bombs—and with little understanding for the repercussions. Or maybe she just really didn't care. So many people these days hid their ill will like daggers tucked up sleeves, and in comparison you generally found her blunt attacks to be refreshing. Even if they spiraled too quickly into the less-than-pleasant. ~~You may have _thought_ much of what she spewed, but even _you_ had enough of a grasp on common sense and social grace not to _say it out loud_.~~

“Tell me again,” she droned, sprawled out lazily over her chair, “what the Dark and Light side have to do with any of this?”

“The Light could fix it.” You paused. “I think.”

“Uh huh.” The medic clearly had little faith and even less interest in your findings. “And what constitutes ‘light’ again?”

You ticked off the list on your fingers. “Honesty, compassion, mercy, self-sacrifice, and _‘other positive emotions.’_ ”

“I don't see any of those cropping up any time soon.”

“I am aware.”

“What do they mean by ‘other positive emotions?’” Alen asked, hands folded politely in his lap and eyes trained on you—utterly attentive. Eve had picked up a scalpel and was busy scraping at her cuticles. You bit back a remark about how you hoped she’d _clean_ that before she put it back.

You flipped through your notes. “I don't know. Forgiveness, maybe? Hope?”

“Love?” He offered.              

You hated how your heart gave a hopeful little lurch at that, like the organ was trying to soar out of your chest and up into your throat. No good. Hearts shouldn’t act like that. It was probably an indicator of the onset of some serious medical condition. After you sorted through this whole ‘yellow eye’ thing you’d get straight to work on over enthusiastic cardiovascular systems.

“I don't know,” you frowned, squinting at your scribbles and actively attempting to douse the warmth curling in your chest. “Passion is a Dark side thing. And as far as I know, those two tend to go hand in hand.”

“Why does he even need fixing?” Eve popped back in, scalpel blade still working away at her short fingernails. It looked like she’d nicked herself—a teensy bead of red rolling down her knuckle. _So unsanitary. “_ So his eyes turned yellow and he was one with the great, big, bad Darkness. Is that really so alarming?”

You hesitated. “Of course it is.”

She scoffed. “It’s just power isn’t it? That’s the final goal of the whole ‘Force’ thing if I’m not mistaken. And besides, you knew what you were getting into.”

 “It wasn’t normal,” you tried. “It was because of _anger_ and _hate_.” You were straight up reciting from the paper at this point, argument growing weaker and weaker by the moment.

“Isn’t he _normally_ angry and hate filled?”

“That’s not the point. It—” You paused and lifted your head from your notes. “ _What I was getting into_?”

Alen paled so quickly and so completely that you almost worried he was about to have a stroke. Eve just shrugged.

“It’s nothing bad. It’s not like anyone’s calling you his whore or anything. Even the rats have more respect than that.”

“ _What_.”

You were rapidly approaching the end of your allotted ration of Eve-tolerance.

“Oh come on,” she puffed, focus drawn back to her hand where the thin blade had caught on a particularly rough patch of skin, “You share quarters. He nearly performed mass genocide on Vonak when you were shot down. And then your more recent stint on Felucia. _‘Stay away from her_. _’_ Pretty self-explanatory. And I could go on and on.” She sucked her bloody finger into her mouth, scalpel dangling loosely in her other fist. “The Stormtroopers may be stupid, but they’re not _that_ stupid. Anyone with a functioning set of eyes could see that from a mile away.”

 _Well then_.

Alen still looked positively scandalized, but when you turned to him—seeking affirmation—he nodded jerkily all the same.

You sighed and returned to your notes. “I guess he isn’t exactly subtle.”

Alen shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “You’re not… upset?”

“Should I be?”

More squirming. “Isn’t that… well… private?”

“It’s not like anyone’s come up to me demanding information,” you said. “People leave me alone well enough.” Besides, you had no problems with spreading a bit of gossip. ~~Or a pretty hefty dose of it in this instance.~~ In all likelihood, Hux was the only person whose inquiries would truly set your teeth on edge. And even **_he_** had been sweet enough not to try and blackmail you with this new intel.

“Oh.” He looked relieved. “Well, that’s good. Very good. I’m happy for you.” _He was such a sweetheart._ You wanted to bundle him up and cart him far, far away to someplace safe where Eve couldn’t taint him.

“I will say this—if you’re still so upset about the _eye_ thing, you could certainly use this ‘relationship’ to your advantage.”

“And how’s that?”

She shrugged. “Fuck the Sith away.”

_“Eve!”_

You tapped your pen against the paper a bit too erratically. _Best to take it in stride._ Even if your face burned. “I don’t think that would actually work.”

Another devil-may-care shrug. “You never know until you try.” Then her eyes dragged pointedly from your head to your toes. “And you clearly haven’t bothered _trying_.” A pause, her sharp gaze locked intently on your neck. “Or if you have, it had to be _incredibly_ disappointing.”

Alen looked just about ready to keel over right then and there and you _really, **really** _ shouldn’t ask how she had managed to deduce that. **_Curiosity killed the cat._ **_Yet satisfaction had brought it back—_

“Why do you say that?”

Another shrug. “No discoloration around your neck or mouth. Usually there’s at least a trace of redness or swelling.” _Ah_. That made sense. She blinked and leaned forward, head canted at an alien angle. “And even with your terrible posture, you’re still walking quite normally.”

 _Okay._ That was it. You had officially surpassed your quota of Eve-tolerance for the day.

You made a show of shuffling together your notes and turned on your heel. “Yes. Well. Thank you for your input.”

She waved as you went, scalpel glinting between her fingers. You turned the corner and could just make out her lips moving as she spoke, but couldn’t pick out the words. Whatever it was, it drove Alen convulsing out of his chair with an echoing _boom_ as he hit the floor, and his inhuman squawk of _“YOU CAN’T SAY THAT ABOUT LORD REN”_ followed you down the corridor.        

.

.

.

They paced and paced.

“The new outpost has already been settled. It’s all been decided.”

“None of that matters now. We need to go after Skywalker.”

“We need to lie in _wait_.”

It was like watching a pair of Boar-Wolves circle each other in a pit—the tattered ties of self-restraint fraying further and further by the minute. Just when one of them seemed ready to snap, the other would step back just enough to keep the peace and the strange dance of theirs continued.

“They’ll come back,” you said, and the duo turned on you with snarls so eerily similar you really considered making some quip about twins, or soulmates, or something tasteful like that. You thought better of it, drumming your fingers lazily over the smooth tabletop instead. “They need the Nysillin.”

“The Resistance won’t send the Jedi. Not again,” Phasma added. “They’ll aim for something more subtle. Spies, perhaps.”

“And if that _is_ the case,” Kylo snapped, “then we need to continue hunting them.”

“We’re in no position to attack without knowing for certain that the odds are in our favor,” Hux bit back.

“Your lack of initiative will drive the First Order into the ground,” the masked menace snarled.

You sat back, legs crossed at the ankles. _Low blow._

The general scoffed, lips twisted up like he’d been forced to swallow something vile. “Unlike some, I understand the limits of my control and that of our operation. And I will not allow our fleet to be struck down because of some _juvenile compulsion_ to prove yourself.”

_Ooh. **Lower** blow. _

You could feel it—like a cold fog rolling over the room. The gloves were about to come off, and that dastardly saber of his was ready to take their place.

“This has nothing to do with _proving_ anything.”

“Oh, on the contrary. I think it has everything to do with it,” the ginger continued, unbidden. “You seem to forget that the focus of this war is not _you_ , **_Ren._** Your feud with the Jedi means _nothing_.”

Kylo’s hands were twitching towards the sheath on his belt and you decided that Hux had approximately _no_ survival instincts to speak of. Either that or he just _honest to goodness_ assumed he was so far up the pecking order that the dark Knight would eventually cow beneath his snark. Either way he was _wrong_. The other members of the council shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Many of the Knights exchanged silent glares, clearly annoyed. Phasma looked like she was rethinking her entire career path.

That afternoon, an undercover troop of Resistance soldiers went and raided the new outpost the First Order had established on Felucia. All but one of the scouts had been gunned down or captured, but that lucky one had escaped with the Nysillin. That sneaky bastard _._

Technical defeat or no, three shiny new prisoners were escorted to their less than shiny cells, and Hux trotted through the ship like a smug little fuck for having been proved right. You hadn’t been present when the news was passed along to the black-swathed terror, nor had you witnessed the ensuing tantrum. But word was that it had been **momentous**.

Over the course of the next few days, a moon was blown up, a spy was captured, and four TIE Fighters on four separate missions had been shot down. It was chaos. It was _war_. And it was understandably very distracting. For the time, you let your musings on ochre eyes slip to the back of your mind.

You trained a new batch of medics, and sat through stuffy war councils, and spent your minimal free time lying in bed with your head propped against Kylo Ren’s chest—dime-store-quality book in hand and tired little smirk in place as your pillow adamantly pretended he _wasn’t_ reading your trashy detective stories over your shoulder. You’d always liked lazing around, but lazing around _with_ someone was nicer. Even if that someone’s eyes had glowed bright yellow and scared the absolute _heebie-jeebies_ out of you only ten days prior.

You were a solid three-quarters of the way through the tale of one particularly unfortunate senator and a worm assassin when the bucket spoke up.  

“I want to take a team to find Skywalker.”

You flipped the page. “Hux thinks going out of our way to hunt down the Jedi is a bad idea.”

You felt your human-cushion stiffen and his brow furrow, drawn low over dark eyes. “You’ve been talking to him about this?”

That tone of his could curdle blue milk.

“Don’t be so petty. He talks _at_ me. Probably hoping I’ll relay it all to you. Besides, if you bothered to show up to any of his more recent meetings, you’d know that it’s _all_ he talks about…” You dog-eared the corner of the page and let your book fall to your lap with a sigh. “We have the Garroter Unit, don’t we? That’s our job—to find Skywalker. That’s all in place.”

“Hux moves too slowly. He refuses to see what’s in front of him and what needs to be done,” he grumbled. “I need to end this.”

“So, what, you want us to go off on our _own?”_ you frowned.

He nodded.

“Isn’t that **_dangerous_** _?_ ” There was a _reason_ the fuckboy didn’t want you all running after the Jedi without his express permission and the thousands of Stormtroopers worth of backup that came with it. Your stint on Felucia had taught you as much.

“Skywalker needs to be taken care of,” he said. “Without him, the Resistance will fall.”

From what you understood, the Resistance had been doing just _fine_ before Luke Skywalker emerged from beneath whatever rock he’d holed out under and waltzed right on back into the picture.

“But he was **alive** —he was alive and they _knew_ it. Always just on the fringes and always the chance that he would be there to _save the day,”_ he practically _snarled._ “I— _We_ need to kill him.”

You dug the heels of your palms into your eyes _. Fine._ You supposed you could see the logic in that. “And let me guess. I’m not ‘allowed’ on this wild Bantha chase of yours?” _For ‘safety.’_ _Just like he argued **every other time**._

“No. I—You need to come with me.”

Your hands dropped from your face. “…pardon?” Then ~~, because you were an asshole~~ , “I’m sorry, but could you repeat that?”

“You were right.” He looked like you were forcing him to dry-swallow nails. “You’ve proved that you’re capable enough to handle battle… And on more than one occasion,” he said, slow, like the words were having trouble finding their way out of his mouth. “And I can’t leave you here. I need you with me.”

“Really? _Always?_ ” you quipped, fighting the pink rising up your neck.

“ _Always_.” Deathly serious and a just a tad overwhelming.

 _Oh_.

 _Well then_.

You turned to the novel in your lap and flipped it back and forth in your hands, happy flush on your cheeks. Declarations of affection were a _terrible_ sort of thing. Very addicting. And lovely. And you were just about ready to melt into a puddle of goo. “Well, if… that’s the case, I defer to your judgement.”

.

.

.

The ginger was understandably pretty hacked off about the sudden departure of the Garroter Unit. You were stealing two of his best Captains and even more medics right out from under him to head out on a mission that he was _clearly_ opposed to. Apparently, he was _so_ angry that he refused to even see you off. It was damn rude, really, to let you leave without even a goodbye. Heck, you could _die_ out there. And he’d have to live forever with the guilt of knowing the last words you’d exchanged had been a bitter argument over _judgement_ , and _unchecked egos_ , and _blablabla._

Sappy farewell or no, the Garroter Unit boarded a new ship with no name and no battle scars and departed from the _Finalizer._

The new ship was small enough to navigate but large enough to comfortably house all thirty-six Garroters. Phasma and her fellow Captain—a strapping young lad with lovely honey eyes and a penchant for staring at your bucket head’s rear for _far_ too long—were in command of piloting the ship. The Knights were spread out across the main deck, trying to pinpoint where to begin the hunt. You ran into Alen in the hall and waved at the flustered medic with a happy smile. You passed Eve a few minutes later and nearly cried. You didn’t, of course. But you wanted to.

That night ( ~~could it ever _really_ be considered night when you were perpetually floating in the deep vacuum of space?)~~ you settled into your new bed alongside a very tired but seemingly very content ~~or at least very smug~~ Knight of Ren. You thought of making a joke about ‘christening’ the new mattress, or something like that, but seeing as there had been no ‘christening’ to speak of on the _old_ mattress back on the _Finalizer_ , you decided it would probably be in poor taste.

Instead you spent that strange limbo in between consciousness and sleep pondering what to call this fledgling vessel. Perhaps seeing as he was in charge, you should leave the whole naming thing up to Kylo. But the lampshade would most definitely dub it ‘Darth Vader II’ or something awful like that, so it was all up to you. All your sleep deprived brain could hack up was ‘Millicent.’ But, really, that was more than good enough.

.

.

.

The Garroter’s first battle was not so much a battle as it was the systematic slaughter of eleven young Resistance spies. Kylo waved his crackling lightsaber in the commanding officer’s face and demanded to know where Luke Skywalker was headed. Said officer gave him the proverbial middle finger and spat something melodramatic like, “the Resistance will not be intimidated by the likes of _you_.”

 Of course, one, brutal, mind-probing session later proved that he just really had no idea. So that lightsaber went from in front of his face to _in_ his face.

The next skirmish was very much the same—a patrol ship was snatched, the obligatory prisoner was taken, and everyone else on board met a brutal end. By the end of the week, your vicious Unit had seized and destroyed four ships and their crews. And if that wasn’t stirring up some waves in the Resistance, then you weren’t sure what else could.

The logic behind it all was simple enough. Sooner or later the band of merry rebels would send someone bigger, someone important, to deal with the beast that was gobbling up their soldiers. Then, you would apprehend that big bad and _hopefully_ he or she would be of a high enough rank that they would have at least _some_ knowledge on Skywalker’s whereabouts. Phasma and Kylo seemed to butt heads on the finer details of that last part, but you still got the gist of it more or less.

On raid number five, your blaster malfunctioned. Rather than just shooting the head off the officer you were aiming at, it screamed and vomited bolts all over the place. You really could have let someone else deal with the escaping trooper, ( ~~there were almost forty of you and only like, oh, you didn’t know, twelve? of them~~ ) but you were _annoyed_ now. And you’d only shot at _him_ because _he’d_ shot at you first. So when he lifted his own weapon you dove to the side and into the wreckage your exploding blaster had wrought. The heel of your boot snagged on a jagged hunk of mutilated flooring and stuck fast. You tugged once, twice, and gave up. Instead, you reached down and reemerged moments later with a length of metal piping—half melted at one end and shattered into a brutally sharp spike at the other.  It was heavier than you’d thought it’d be and long enough that the end caught on the floor. And honestly, now that it was in your hands you were starting to have second thoughts. But then the officer fucking _charged_ at you and you jammed your makeshift claymore straight through his front and out his back.

The last of the Resistance troops fell and you were still just kind of standing there with a dude-kabob, boot snared in the blaster-warped metal and unsure how exactly you were supposed to proceed from here. Did you just… let him fall? Slide him off the end? Drop it all together? But you were _stuck_ until you found a way to work your foot free of the steel, and letting your assailant plop to the floor where he could potentially land against _you_ didn’t seem all that appealing.

In the midst of all the blood and destruction, you could feel a set of very familiar eyes on you.  

You looked up and there was Kylo Ren—intimidating as ever with that snarling saber in hand and a pair of Stormtroopers at his flank. And he was just _staring_ at you. You were sure you painted quite the lovely picture, with the broken pipe in hand and a bloody Resistance officer ever-so-slowly slipping further down the end of it. You flexed your fingers and gave your trapped foot a pointed jerk. After a moment he lifted a hand and the metal screeched and complained before giving way with a defeated groan. You stepped free and let your victim fall to the floor with a thud.

Carefully, you skirted the growing crimson puddle forming at your heels and brushed your sweaty palms over your shirt. You moved to stand at his side, all the while glancing over the splashes of red speckled over your fingers with distaste. “Well, that was _tedious_.”

He hummed in acknowledgment but was otherwise silent.

You frowned. Usually by this point he was demanding to know if you were hurt, and swearing murder on your already long-dead opponents. “Are you alright?”

He stiffened and looked away. “Yes. Of course.”

“If you say so.”

The vessel’s defeated captain was hauled forward for interrogation and that was the end of that.

.

.

.

The next time you seized a ship, you felt Kylo Ren’s eyes on you throughout the entirety of the ordeal. ~~Which was really probably very dangerous, and he of all people should know that paying attention was key to surviving a battle~~. You had a brand new blaster which worked perfectly fine, and no impromptu human-skewers were required. At the end of it, you holstered your weapon and planted yourself firmly beside him. While he ran through the customary once-over to make sure you were uninjured, he almost seemed… _disappointed?_ No, not about you being well and whole, but…

_No._

_Certainly not._

You knew people had all sorts of strange predilections, but fucking _stabbing people?_ No. _No way._ I mean, it wasn’t like _you_ found him incredibly attractive when he was wielding that garish lightsaber of his and eviscerating his enemies one by one—

Okay. So maybe you weren’t one to judge.

But—But—

 _No_. You weren’t going to think about this. You _weren’t._

.

.

.

You thought about it.

You thought about it a lot.

Not when he was in the room of course, or really anywhere in the vicinity. But you did ponder on it long and hard whenever you had a moment alone.

Finally, like any good scientist, you decided to test this new theory. And this time, you knew well enough to keep Eve as _far_ from your hypothesis as possible. 

The blaster holstered at your side was joined by a wicked, silver, blade that looked like it was far better suited for the hands of some war lord than dangling loosely at your hip. Then, of course, the next raid didn’t come for a solid week and a half after that. And by the time it did, you had almost completely forgotten _why_ you were carting around a gleaming hunk of steel. Naturally, the memory came crashing back _after_ you’d drawn your blaster and fired.

Experiment failed.

.

.

.

You turned the blade over and over in your hands, watching the dim light play across the metal.

“I wasn’t aware you had any interest in swordsmanship.”

You placed the weapon delicately on the dresser where your blaster had already been retired for the evening.

“I did say I wanted to learn how to use your lightsaber.”

“A sword isn’t the same as a lightsaber.” And he looked thoroughly offended at the very _idea_ that it could be. In any way _. At all._  

You rolled your eyes and plopped down on the mattress. “In case you’ve forgotten, not all of us can _have_ lightsabers.”

Kylo’s face scrunched up in a peculiar sort of way for a moment or two before relaxing back into that familiar smirk. It looked a bit unnatural—sharp edged. “I did offer—before. To let you use mine.”

“You did.” _As begrudgingly forced as that promise had been_.

He reached out and plucked the sheathed saber from its place resting beside all his other belongings. He held it out pointedly, pommel to you as one would offer a knife, and you _gaped_.

“No way.”

A dark brow arched up, almost a challenge.

You kept on gawking, disbelieving. “Right now?”

It was late. You were both already dressed for bed and you were in pretty tight quarters. Lots of things to run into, or _slice through_ in this instance. Not that any of that bothered _you_. You just assumed that he would have preferred for your first foray with a saber to be out in the open, where you couldn’t hurt the furniture. Or _him_.

“Do you want to try it or not?”

You were careening off the mattress so fast you almost gave yourself vertigo.

He pressed the hilt into your hands and you shifted it gingerly back and forth. You ran your thumb over the worn metal. It was warm, smooth, if a bit clunky. Bulkier than you thought it’d be.

“You have to be careful of the vents.”

He reached around to adjust your grip, dragging your fingers so they settled further down the hilt.

“You mean the crossguard.”

“They’re vents.”

“Right.” You gave it a small twirl, just to get a better grasp on the weight of it. His hands were still wrapped around yours, keeping the blade face forward, and you stared at the tip of the weapon expectantly. “How do I…?”

He situated your thumb over one of the raised ridges.

“Activation plate.”

You pressed down and the lightsaber shot to life with a harrowing screech that would have sent you flailing backwards if Kylo wasn’t already pressed up against your back, keeping you firmly in place. You stared at the crackling beam of crimson, entranced. Once all that melodramatic yowling was out of the way, it really was rather nice. ~~If you were a more poetic person, you may have gone so far as to call it _beautiful_. But seeing as that wasn’t the case, you’d just keep on staring~~. It purred—low and deep, like some kind of monstrous, contented, wildcat.

“Keep it pointed towards the wall.” And again, because he didn’t seem to think he’d hammered the point home well enough, “And keep your fingers away from the vents.”

“Got it.”

His hands fell away and he stepped back, no more than a pace or two.

You raised your arms a bit and gave it an experimental swing. The blade arched through the air with a high pitched wail. It was strange. Weightless, almost. But not at all. And like there was endless power trapped against your fingertips. The cracked Kyber crystal at your throat sang with it. You swung the saber again, because two experimental swings were more than reasonable. So were three. And six.

“You like it, I assume.” He sounded damn smug. And just a bit proud.

 _Like it?_ You were never giving it back.

You stepped forward so he was out of your radius of destruction and gave a full-bodied twirl. The saber growled as it tore through the air. The blade was a bit long for your shorter stature, but it wasn’t too difficult to adjust. You faked a block, and a jab, then some sort of strange parry. You were tempted to try a figure eight, or one of the bucket’s dramatic, over-the-head spins, but the sparking beams of the crossguard were already dancing perilously close to your knuckles _without_ the fancy, upper-level, choreography, so you settled for slicing into invisible foes the old fashioned way. You turned back to the rightful owner of your new favorite thing in the galaxy with a vicious slash that left the air hissing and a grin that could outshine a sun.

His own lips were canted upwards in a way you hadn’t seen in a while. Not since the day you’d made him laugh in the cave on Ilum. He looked relaxed. Amused. _Happy,_ even. ~~Almost.~~ But also—

The plasma blade retracted with a whine and you held the weapon out for him to take. It fell to the floor with a _clang_ and you were tripping over your feet trying to keep your balance as he shoved his hands into your hair and all but _attacked_ your mouth.

You had fucking _knew_ it.

The back of your knees hit the mattress and you went tumbling backwards. You landed in the mess of blankets with an _oof_. Kylo followed not far after, hands coming up to cage your head and knees finding purchase on either side of your own. Sharp canines scraped over your bottom lip and you opened your mouth obligingly to deepen the kiss. His tongue swept over yours, far from gentle probing, and you pushed right on back. You curled your fingers into his hair like claws and dragged him closer. His tongue pressed further, demanding not submission, but an equal in combat. His hands abandoned their post by your head to dig themselves under your lower back and haul you up and against him, and man, if that didn’t send all kinds of heat straight between your thighs.

His mouth broke from yours and immediately latched onto the skin at your jaw—trailing down to the junction of your throat and leaving a mess of wet, stinging, bites in its wake. And you were _definitely_ going to need to steal his scarf or something because your neck was going to look like a goddamn _battle field_.

A particular sharp nip to your collarbone had you keening and you tightened your hold on his hair to steer his mouth back up to yours.

The hands at your lower back had slid beneath the loose fabric of your shirt and were busying themselves with digging into the skin there. And all you could think for a startlingly rational moment was that thank _fuck_ you weren’t ticklish. Your own hands were quite busy with that amazing hair of his, but the more his own explored, the more you were tempted to follow his example.

His hips pressed yours down into the mattress and you managed to free up one of your legs enough to wrap it around his waist so you could keep him there. One of the hands which had been roaming around your lower back had snuck down to hook around the back of your thigh and slot your hips more firmly together—a process which ultimately yanked your poor butt almost a half a foot down the mattress, and _why_ did he have to be so gosh darn _tall?_ The position did, however, momentarily free up your lips, and you managed to splutter—

“If I had known using your lightsaber would lead to this—” The other hand still hiding beneath your shirt had slid further up, dragging the fabric with it, “—I—ah—would’ve started stabbing people _ages_ ago—”

The grip on your hips tightened to the point that you were fairly certain you’d wake tomorrow to a mottled canvas of purple handprints spanning your sides, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. If anything, at this point the idea was almost appealing. ~~In a fucked up, ‘sex is making my brain break’ sort of way.~~

You found the will to extricate your fingers from his hair and let them fall to press against his chest. Then trail down further, where you gripped on tight to the edge of his shirt and gave a very pointed tug. You broke apart for a moment and the hands at your waist seemed to have a pretty similar goal to your own. The now thoroughly-stretched fabric of your t-shirt bunched up as far as it would go—stuck just below your ribs.

His teeth caught on the lobe of your ear. “Raise your arms.”

“You first.”

He grumbled, but reeled back. With a far too vicious tug and subsequent hurl worthy of some sort of professional smashball pitcher, his shirt disappeared into areas unknown. The bucket’s side of the negotiation having been fulfilled, you helpfully lifted your arms up towards the headboard and your shirt tore over your head almost faster than you could comprehend, leaving you a bit dazed and your hair a frizzed-out mess ~~or at least, ** _more_** of a mess than it must have already been at this point~~.

It only occurred to you as he hauled you back against him—bare chest to chest—that this was the first time since you’d treated his nasty saber wounds all those months ago that you would actually _see him_ without four layers of black fabric in the way. Sure, there’d been those unpleasantly muggy nights on Felucia where he had shed his last shirt to avoid burning up and dying, but you’d been too drained and too hot to really care about sneaking a peak.

Your fingers trailed across each of the brilliant pink scars crisscrossing his skin. Yes, there was the one big one that split his face in two, but you’d fixed more than just that. You saw his grumpy ol’ face often enough, but these had been hidden from you for _ages_.

If you were a more romantic person, you could spend a bit of this lovely time waxing poetic about the way the muscles in his chest strained and shifted beneath his pale skin, or you might revel in the fact that beneath that black dress, he was _far_ from the scrawny little twerp so many stormtroopers seemed to think he was. You’d _known_ he was strong, but the very, ah, _physical_ evidence reinforcing that strength was certainly nothing to gripe about.  

His hands where going everywhere—up and down, pressing and kneading, and you jerked back into the mattress. Okay. Maybe you were a _teensy_ bit ticklish. Or just sensitive. Either way, your hands had finished their own exploring for the immediate moment and you reached back up to card your fingers through his hair. Then, when his lips left yours so that he could bury his face into the bare stretch of your collarbone, you released your death grip on those coveted locks to instead grapple for purchase at his shoulders, digging your nails into the muscle there.

When he lifted his head again his eyes were blown wide and dark—brown shot through with so much black it was hard to make out where the pupil ended and the familiar chocolate irises that you loved so much began.

He paused, mouth working silently for a moment. “You love my eyes?”

You quirked a brow. “Yes? And the rest of you too, shockingly enough.”

For a hot second it looked like you’d broken him. Or at the very least stalled some very essential part of his brain. _Broca’s Area, perhaps. Or maybe even the entirety of the frontal lobe_. “You _love_ me.”

You frowned. “Of course I do.”

 _Nothing but static._ Clearly there was some dissonance between his ears and the rest of him because the expression twisting his face could only be described as _‘does not compute.’_

You tilted your head, whacked-out hair falling over your shoulder. “I mean, after everyone—I thought it was pretty obvious, but I guess I’m not very—”

You broke off with a muffled grunt as he pressed back down against you with enough vigor to all but knock the air straight out of your lungs, and certainly enough to send you sliding a solid foot up the mattress. You floundered about a bit until you managed to plant your feet in the blankets and match, or at the very least reflect, his sudden ardor. Just when you thought you’d caught up, his hips ground down into yours and, _wow_ , okay, unless he’d magically picked up his precious weapon between the second you’d dropped it and now, that was most definitely _not_ a lightsaber pressing into your thigh. And _that_ sent a fresh wave of heat straight between your legs and a shiver dancing up your spine.

 “Say it.”

A hand slipped down your abdomen and past the waistband of your pants, and you almost choked on your tongue. Instead of the aforementioned asphyxiation, you settled for letting your head loll back with a breathless gasp ~~that was 100% _not_ any sort of ‘whine,’ because that would have been humiliating and you were an adult human being with perfectly adequate control over your vocalizations, thank you very much~~. You pressed your knee into the Knight’s groin in retaliation and he hissed through clenched teeth, dark eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping back into focus. Rather than draw away like you’d expected, he pushed back against the barrier and his fingers went from casually chilling at the edges of your underwear to—

“ _Say it_.”

Your nails bit into the flesh of his biceps and your hips arched off the mattress. ~~You weren’t going to be the only one with a fresh set of bruises in the morning.~~ You managed a far too shaky, “Say **_what_** _._ ”

His fingers flexed experimentally but otherwise remained unmoving. Even though you could _clearly_ see the muscles corded in his arms—stiff with strain and practically _vibrating_ with the effort of keeping still.

“That you love me.”

You huffed, thoroughly exasperated, “ _I love you_.”

And as annoyed as you were that he was putting the break on things so that he could interrogate you _now_ of all the bloody fucking times, you really, _really_ , did. You remembered fleetingly how he hated his father and quietly missed his mother, and how his entire family seemed to have abandoned him, and you decided that you could forgive his need to hear you affirm your affections out loud.

You sighed and pressed your lips to his—soft, in comparison to the goings on of the past few minutes—and said again, this time with less aggravation, “I love you.” _Tantrums, stupid bucket, questionable line of ancestry, and all._

The hand not currently shoved down your pants came up to tangle itself in your hair and he kissed back, openmouthed and hard. That _other_ set of fingers stroked leisurely back and forth for a few seconds before twisting around and pressing in with absolutely _zero_ forewarning.

You threw your head back with a strangled little mewl ~~that was honestly sort of embarrassing but seeing as _Kylo fucking Ren_ literally had two fingers shoved _inside of you_ , you could damn well suck it up.~~ He swiveled his wrist this way and that—stretching, and exploring, and holy _fuck_. This time around, you didn’t even bother trying to stifle the noises that came tumbling out of your throat. Kylo looked like he was putting in his absolute maximum effort to bite back his own low groan, but his eyes were already so, so, dark that it hardly mattered if he managed to keep the sound under wraps. And by this point it was safe to say that you were well and truly past the point of ‘overwhelmed.’

Fucked out of your wits or otherwise, your brain was still the stuff of legends, and that fantastic super computer of an organ somehow had enough sense about it to realize that, _hey_ , you were both still clothed from the waist down, and that was most definitely a problem that needed to be addressed _right now_.  

So you released his arms from your death grip and reached down to tug at his pants. Whether thanks to thought or action, he got the message quickly enough and lifted his hips so you could help him shimmy out of the black fabric while he worked at dragging your own pants down your thighs. You contorted and strained until you could kick off the tangled mess of cotton caught on your feet, and the crumpled mess landed somewhere over the side of the bed.

You barely had time to appreciate the sight of him hovering over you, lean and freckled and entirely free from _every single one of those goddamn layers for the first time in **forever** , _before his fingers came down to latch onto your ankles—maneuvering your legs to hook tight around his waist. One hand came to rest beside your head and the other splayed itself flat across your lower back, keeping your hips aloft. Then he was pushing in in one smooth stroke until you were pressed together, chest to chest and hip to hip.

Your breath flew out of you all in one, long, _whoosh_ —hands skittering uselessly across the sheets for a moment or two before finally flying up to clamp around his shoulders. Full lips were pulled back taught over clenched teeth with a guttural hiss, but the Knight wasn’t moving. Though it certainly didn’t seem to be for lack of trying. The dark terror looked like he was ready to shake out of his skin as he fought to keep still. You could see the muscles twitching along his abdomen, in his arms—jumping anxiously all the way up his spine.

You dug your nails into his back. “I’m fine—I’m fine— _Just_ —”

That was it. The magic word had been uttered, consent doled out in the appropriate fashion, and he let loose. His hips ground down into yours and you gasped. One of your legs fell away from its designated place around his waist and the hand by your head moved to pin the remaining limb higher up against his hip. He drove into you fast and hard—nothing withheld, no barriers in place—and it was _amazing_.

The heat spiraling in your belly curled itself tighter and tighter. You scratched your fingers down his back and felt a rumbling moan work its way through his chest and out his throat. He buried his face into the crook of your neck with a particularly sharp thrust, and bit down hard— _maybe a bit too much so_ —but the moment that sliver of apprehension skirted through your thoughts, he was backing away and going after your lips instead.

You rocked your hips back against his, that warmth coiling up, and up, and _up_. Your hands were a bit occupied with doing their best to claw the absolute shit out of his back, but that endeavor was coming to an end as quickly as it seemed you were too. So you relocated them to his hair and held on tight as he thrust once, twice, three more times, and you fell over the edge—all that heat unfurling to spread through your limbs and send a tidal wave of sparks swimming through your blood.

Kylo followed not long after—hips stuttering and finally coming to a halt with a breathy little sound that he couldn’t quite manage to swallow.

The Knight collapsed next to you, arms already doing their best to trap you against his chest where there was no possibility of escape. ~~But really, you had absolutely **no** plans to go _anywhere_ anytime soon, so it wasn’t like you _minded_.~~ He sighed, bone deep and heavy with fatigue, but content. You burrowed into his side, sweat still cooling on your brow and legs tangled up like weeds beneath the sheets.

You really wanted to make some tired quip about how you really should have done that sooner, or something classy like that. But your limbs currently possessed all the structural stability of gelatin, and your brain wasn’t doing much better. So you closed your eyes and let yourself drift off.

But you did make sure to slip in one, final—if a bit slurred—declaration before you faded into the land of unconsciousness. At this point you honestly couldn’t tell if you’d actually said the words aloud or just thought them. Either way, you pushed the sentiment through with as much warmth as your weary self could muster.

Just in case he hadn’t gotten the point the first two times you’d said it.  

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I've never actually written smut before so I had no idea what I was doing and let me tell you, writing porn is really, really, fucking hard. (and off of that, if this was really weird or just straight up bad, PLEASE don't be nice about it--just let me know so I can try to fix is ASAP)
> 
> Major shout out to all of y'all who can do this on a regular basis because I had, and continue to have, absolutely no fucking clue what I'm doing, and this chapter alone completely wiped me out. 
> 
> Either way, I hope the smex was worth 50,000+ words of slow burn. 
> 
> Peace out, girl scouts.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then, as you stepped onto ship numero veinte, you knew.
> 
> This was different.
> 
> This was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Kylo FUNKO POP has just been sitting and glaring at me since I finished work for the summer. And no matter how long this chapter took, or how many total overhauls it needed, or how many pages upon pages had to be chucked, or just how UGH it all was, he just kept on glaring. Like the little shit he fucking is. 
> 
> And I could take his judgement no longer. 
> 
> So here I am. 
> 
> I am tired, and I go back and forth between loving and loathing this chapter and I've read it over probably 500 times at this point and I am so SICK of it, so HERE YOU GO. 
> 
> ENJOY, YOU FUCKS.
> 
> I LOVE AND MISSED YOU ALL.

For some reason, a large part of you had been expecting the news of your copulation to spread through the Garroter Unit like wildfire. Surely it would bump out that old bit of gossip about those two troopers in the closet, or FN-4553’s disappearing pinkie finger. But no. Another Resistance ship was seized and ravaged and no one said anything about the Knight hovering ~~equally~~ more plainly at your side or the oddly stiff way you winced and momentarily lost your balance while attempting to sidestep a mound of rubble.

The only brush with awkward you faced was the inevitable run in with She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Alen and said demon had passed you in the corridor outside the med bay. Your sweet little medic friend smiled and waved demurely and his surly companion nodded once in acknowledgement before pausing in her steps. She’d called your name as you hurried along and you’d turned to her cautiously—the way one may come to face a wild animal.

“Yes, Eve?”

“I applaud your success.”

“Well… ah—Thank you, then. I suppose.” _All in all not too horrible._ **_Which meant something worse was coming._**

“And I express my sincerest apologies on Lord Ren’s behalf.”

You stilled.

“Pardon?”

She shrugged. “I insulted him prematurely. It seems that he performed far better than I would have expected.”

**_Nope._ **

_Doc, out._

You’d turned and ~~retreated~~ continued on briskly down the hall and, well, that was it. No other subtle inquiries, not even a curious tilt of the head as you passed.

You sat down at dinner that night with another awkward half-flinch that was gone nearly as soon as it passed across your face, but no matter how fleeting, Jaina’s brow still furrowed low over clear, brown eyes. She didn’t ask. You weren’t even sure she would have bothered at all, or that she really even cared. But rather than sit in silence you tossed out a semi-awkward—

“Rough night.”

One neat eyebrow arched up high on her forehead. “I wouldn’t think any more than usual.”

You paused, spoonful of tepid bantha-noodle soup halfway to your mouth “We haven’t… Not before—” you trailed off with a shrug and shoved the tasteless broth past your lips.

“Ah.”

And that was that.

It turns out, the Garroter Unit didn’t partake in gossip about events that they thought had been done and over with _weeks_ ago.

To think, you’d been working with these people for lord knew how long now and _the whole time_ they thought you were fucking your boss. You weren’t sure if you should be insulted or flattered. When you brought it up later that evening, Kylo seemed to smugly believe it was most certainly the latter. And then, of course, thought it best to provide more fodder for those long dead rumors.

.

.

.

Perhaps the call should have come sooner. At the very least, you really shouldn’t have been surprised when it finally did. The Garroter Unit had seized twelve ships at this point, and over one hundred Resistance soldiers lay scattered in assorted bits and pieces across the galaxy. Kylo Ren had kicked the hornets’ nest with every intention of drawing the stingers his way. And it seemed mommy dearest was _not_ _happy._

“Doctor.”

Said mommy glowered down at you with those thin eyebrows too light for his face and that stupid fucking overcoat whose sleeves still had absolutely _no_ purpose. God, you’d actually _missed_ that ugly mug. ~~Not that you would ever let him _know_ that of course, but whatever.~~

You bobbed your chin politely. “General.”

“Ren.”

The black swathed terror made no move to reply. Hux’s pixelated glare bore into him with all the subtly of a fighter jet. _Clearly_ someone still wasn’t happy about the whole _‘we’re leaving with your top officers to go fly around the galaxy murdering people and there’s nothing you can do about it’_ situation.

You shifted back and forth on the balls of your feet.

“I take it this isn’t a curtesy call, General?”

That petulant glower darted your way for a scant three seconds ( ~~believe me, you counted it out~~ ) before focusing back on Mr. Murder.

“The Supreme Leader asks that you step aside—cease this ‘spree’ of yours and return to _The Finalizer_ ,” Hux said with little else in the way of prerequisite. “You’re drawing too much attention to yourself and you’re putting the operation in danger.”

“We are making _progress_ ,” Ren snapped, low and harsh.

“So you are,” Hux snipped right on back, peering down his pointed nose at the both of you. “I congratulate you for managing to step so far out of line before your superiors could find the time to draw you back in. I _congratulate_ you for leading your crew so deep into the line of fire that at this point there is little even _I_ can do to extradite them. I _congratulate_ you for risking the lives of our best strategists and medics alike to do little more than soothe your own aching pride. So _well done_ , Lord Ren—”

Hux’s sneer erupted in a shriek of jagged red plasma and sparks. The mangled screen fizzled and hissed, slashed crooked down the middle. You frowned over at the hulking Knight—his shoulders hunched like a spitting cat and heaving as he bore down on the poor stretch of what had so recently been very pristine glass. Once he was finished stabbing and hacking, you stepped forward to poke at the wreckage with the toe of your boot.

“That wasn’t very polite.”

He snarled and you held up your hands in peace.

“I’m not saying he wasn’t being _equally_ impolite, only that there may have been a better way to handle it then—” you gestured to the ruined comm board. “These things aren’t exactly cheap, you know.”

He seemed to unclench a bit at that. Not quite defeated—more begrudging admittance that you may or may not have had a point there. The bundle of black fabric and anger slouched over to stand at your left, all but pressed up against your side.

“We’re making progress,” he repeated, as if you hadn’t heard him earlier. “Retreating now would be foolish.”

“I know.” Besides, this was part of your adventure which you believed all those lovely bibliophiles might call ‘the rising action,’ and it would be such a shame to turn back now when the climax was upon you. So you snuck one of your hands into his and glanced up handsomely beneath your lashes. “Besides. I saw a pretty roomy custodial closet a few halls down. A full two feet of space. We can talk about Hux later.”

You did not, in actuality, talk about Hux later. Or anything sensible at all, really.

.

.

.

The next six weeks passed in the same sort of violent monotony as their predecessors.

Capture. Ransack. Kill. Interrogate. Double kill. _Repeat._

Over and over until you were just downright sick of scrubbing dried blood from the soles of your boots. Sure, now there were lovelier things to look forward to once you had picked the final flakes of crimson from under your nails and collapsed back into rumpled bed sheets, but even with your nightly Knight extravaganzas keeping you on your toes, you were really getting _bored._ It wasn’t just you to be fair. The entirety of the Garroter Unit seemed to be growing more and more antsy. Forever on the hunt for that elusive golden ticket.

Then, as you stepped onto ship numero veinte, you _knew_.

This was different.

This was _it._

For one, the Captain wasn’t a Captain. She was a pilot swimming in a purple jumpsuit and an ugly white utility belt. She looked severe, harsh even, with thick black hair pulled tight against the base of her skull and glittering brown eyes that mirrored the hue of her clear skin to an alarmingly perfect degree.

“Greer Sonnel.”

“ _Ben_.”

You could see him flinch from all the way across the room.

There were plenty of things that drove your bucket mad, some that made him sad, and plenty more that spurred tantrums and rants and lightsaber filled fits. But there was little out there that _unnerved_ him. But this woman clearly did. Or maybe it was just… **_Ben._**

He must’ve caught your train of thought because his muscles jerked once more and purple-clad pilot grinned.

Whoever she was, you didn’t like her.

You stepped up to Kylo Ren’s side with all the hauteur of a queen. Green or Groop or whatever her name was kept on smiling, but now her lips had twisted up unpleasantly sharp at the corners. You stared her down hard, and beneath all that smugness you could see fear. Not the usual sort which overflowed from your captives in nauseating waves of yellow and sweat, but the silent kind. The terror that came from a tentative sort of resignation. Awful, awful, resignation.

You thought of Banthas lined up for slaughter and frowned.

 _Sacrifice_.

You didn’t like it.

“Where are they.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Black leather creaked as his hand rose to hover over before her. Her brow drew up tight and you could see the muscles jumping and snarling in her jaw. A scream then—they always screamed—and Green or Groop or whatever her name was folded forward, sweaty and pained and beaten, as Kylo stormed through her skull. A moment later he tensed, hesitated, then stepped away. The Knight withdrew his mental cuff and Miss Purple Catastrophe dropped to the ground with a lackluster _fwump_.

You looked at him curiously. “Did you find something?”

Not a word. Well, at least not in the verbal sense. But you could read him pretty damn well at this point, ~~perhaps not as well as he could you,~~ and even with that stupid bucket obscuring his face, you _knew_.

_This was the golden ticket._

He seemed to shake himself a bit before turning and stomping to the gate.

“Set a course for Kamparas.”

Phasma shifted to stare at him, blaster pressed firm to the temple of a kneeling officer. “The crew?”

“Kill them all.”

Purple suit’s eyes slid shut and you sniffed, annoyed. It was a response played out purely for aesthetic purposes ~~(no one did ‘annoyed as all fuck’ better than you did. Well, maybe Hux. But whatever. On this ship you were Queen of Irritated Facial Ticks)~~ but with it, you got a whiff of something… strange.

“Doctor.”

You frowned and inhaled again, slower this time.

“ _Doctor_.”

You blinked.

Kylo’s hand was held out in your direction, beckoning you forward.

You stepped around the felled pilot and into his grasp, allowing yourself one final snuff as you passed. You let your Knight tug you off the doomed vessel and away from its equally damned occupants. The door of the bridge slid shut behind the pair of you—the sound of blaster fire in your ears and the saccharine stench of fever in your nose.

.

.

.

“Kamparas.”

You ticked it off on your tablet. “You don’t seem all that enthusiastic about it.”

“We’ve had a prior run in with the Resistance on that planet,” Phasma intoned, bland.

“A skirmish, nothing more. And years ago,” Kylo puffed, tense in his seat. A short pause then, more an uncomfortable hitch in speech than anything else. “It was once a training ground for Jedi. And housed the largest of the Imperial Archives.”

“Sounds important.”

“It sounds too good to be true,” Jaina said. And that it did. Two Jedi holed away in a crumbling temple? It seemed obvious. Like a poorly written story jumping from one rail to the next in a half-ditch attempt to keep the protagonists ~~antagonists~~ in the lead.

Jaina and Phasma exchanged pointed looks. You observed said pointed look with interest, but otherwise kept to yourself.

Olin folded his hands neatly on the tabletop. “When you were riffling through her head, did you find any trace of—”

“ _No_ ,” Kylo cut in, firm. “No deception. Greer Sonnel and her crew knew the risks—they were sent to apprehend us, they failed.” The projection of Kamparas’s viridian surface swirled calmly beneath his fingers. “And we will take full advantage of that misstep.”

.

.

.

“Was there something wrong with her?”

Kylo paused, halfway out of his shirt. Perhaps not the _optimal_ time to press this, but. Well. You weren’t exactly _known_ for being rational or your steller sense of timing.

“Why do you ask?”

“She was sick,” you said. “A fever, if I had to guess. A bad one too. Probably chronic, judging by her reaction to it.” And the _smell_. Like old meat. The longer something (or someone) was left to cook, the stronger its tang grew.

His lips twisted downwards and you shrugged.

“I _am_ a doctor.” You tapped at your nose. “You do tend to develop a sense for these sorts of things.” And she had smelled _awful_. Fear sweat was one thing, but _sick_ sweat. That was another beast entirely. And one with a very particular and very _unpleasant_ scent.

He settled in next to you with all the stiff annoyance of someone who was clearly frustrated that his girlfriend ( _ ~~girlfriend~~_ ~~. was that what you were?)~~ had decided it’d be fun to talk about some casualty from this morning rather than partake in some awesome, post-ship-hijack sex.

“Bloodburn,” he provided, blunt, face angled to the wall. “She was my mother’s assistant. I barely knew her, but I knew enough to know that she was sick, and growing sicker.” He scoffed, “I’m surprised she managed to stay alive enough to apprehend us.”

“ _Attempt_ to apprehend,” you corrected. Then, “So Greer Sonnel volunteered to find out what was happening to all the ships we seized,” you surmised. “She knew she was going to die soon anyways so she offered herself up.”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

Well. That was a lot less convoluted than you’d assumed. And good thing too. Because a very sneaky set of fingers was sliding up your hip and you _really_ weren’t going to have much time in the near future to spend pondering on shifty characters. Your hands rose to settle on their usual perch across his pale shoulders and you let him pull your mouth up to his.

.

.

.

The Garroter Unit was a mighty beast.

Twenty ships eliminated and over two-hundred Resistance troops wiped from existence in just under half a year. A veritable army consisting of half a dozen murderous, lampshade assassins, an almost-Sith who threw tantrums as large as supernovas, a slew of manic psychopaths who may or may not get off on the idea of ritual sacrifice, and an Allen.

You weren’t quite unstoppable, but you were certainly some tough motherfuckers.

And tomorrow morning, that beast was ready to set down Kamparas and flush out the rebel scum hiding away in the shadows. To crush the last two Jedi and take one more step in the stupidly endless rat race that was reclaiming the Galaxy. All that hoopla.

Despite all the aforementioned toughness and the fact that you had a blood thirsty guard-bucket hanging over your shoulder who had _quite literally_ decapitated things for looking at you the wrong way, you were… well. You were _anxious_.

This was it. The final showdown. And you should be bouncing on the balls of your feet in anticipation. And to be fair, you sort of were. But you were also half-bouncing from nerves and restless leg syndrome.

You burrowed your head deeper into Kylo’s neck and focused on counting the few freckles that had managed to spill off his cheeks and down the column of his throat. You managed to get all the way to his collar bone (with little more than 2.45 freckles accounted for) when the hand at your hip tightened. **_Ah_** _. Right._ Your discomfort was his. Or at the very least, it projected enough that it would press and press until it _became_ his.

He flicked the cracked Kyber crystal at your throat.

“Nothing is going to go wrong.”

You shrugged.

The arm resting against your back curled tighter around your midsection, hauling you closer.

“I will not _allow_ anything to go wrong.”

“I know, I know. Just…” you sighed, irritated with yourself. Even though you and the lampshade had been both physically and metaphorically attached at the hip for quite a while now, you still weren’t accustomed to—to _caring_ so much. It was hard to go your whole life being almost entirely unmoved by the strife of other organisms to suddenly being _drowned_ by concern for one, stupid, emo wannabe. “Just don’t get caught I guess.”

“Noted.” You were certain he was rolling his eyes. “And I’ll do my best not to die on the field _._ ”

“Well, yeah. That too.” You stared at one particularly misshapen freckle. _As awful as it sounded…_ At least if he was dead, you’d know he was dead. At peace, hopefully. ~~Probably not.~~ Pleasantly toasty in whatever Hell there was _. If he was captured—_ Well, you’d never partaken in any of the more abusive pastimes that some army doctors were called upon to dole out… but you knew torture well enough. “Just don’t do either. The capture or the death thing.”

He managed to turn you enough to get your nose out of his neck before gripping your chin between his fingers and tilting your head back until you met his narrowed, brown gaze with your own.

“And you have to promise the same.”

“What? That I won’t die?” you snorted. “I can’t _promise_ that. I didn’t even make **_you_** _‘promise’_ that. Just to actively _try_ to—”

The Knight’s venomous glare cut off your objections and you sighed before pointedly lifting a finger to your chest and dragging it back and forth in a lopsided attempt at an ‘X.’

“Cross my heart. Hope not to die. Will not stick a needle in my eye.”

He nodded, dark hair falling across his brow. And, vicious lump of black fabric ( ~~or lack thereof, at the moment)~~ with a reputation to keep or otherwise, he pressed his lips against your forehead and hissed into your skin. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do.” You just wished he’d make such lovely declarations in regards to his own wellbeing. Because, _hello_. That was much more important.

You could feel his mouth twist downwards in distaste. “It’s not.”

“You tell yourself that.”

You decided to cut off any and all future objections ~~(because you could already hear them forming on the tip of his tongue)~~ by dragging that lovely mouth of his away from the fringe of your hairline and down to meet yours. You parted your lips with a sigh and he took the invitation to plunder further, tongue coasting languidly over your own. He pulled away after a few more moments to fold you snuggly back under his arm and you closed your eyes, far too tired to argue with him for spurring on your libido just to tuck you in for bed like a child.

You sighed once more—the final, ‘ready to pass out’ sort of sigh that came from the deepest recesses of your lungs to ghost over his chest and left you little more than a weary bag of bones.

“I love you, you know. I feel like I don’t say it enough.”

A pause, almost too long to be comfortable. You could feel his fingers flex against your hip. “You do.”

You yawned. “Okay. That’s good then.”

.

.

.

Kylo was first to set foot on the surface.

The air here was clean, crisp, and blue. It nipped pleasantly at your skin. The Garroter’s presence seemed so blatantly _obvious_ against the green backdrop of Kamparas’s largest valley, what with the stormtroopers encased in that bone white armor of theirs—far from subtle when laid against speckled brown hills and dark stone cliffs.

The grass flattened easily as you followed, soft beneath the heels of your boots.

“The training center is just there—” Phasma gestured. To you, these ancient Jedi training grounds looked like little more than crumbling caves carved into the mountainside, but, hey. The dudes were dead. They could decorate how they liked you supposed. “The archives are attached apparently. Though in all likelihood they’ve been long blocked off by collapsed mines.”

Kylo turned to the troopers. “Sweep the area.”

“Yes, sir.”

You stepped up to his side, observing the little patsies as they scampered off to do their master’s bidding.

“I like it here.”

His helmet tilted up just a bit, like he might be sneaking a quick glance at the puffy white clouds and impossibly blue sky overhead. “It is… peaceful.”

You waggled your eyebrows a bit and then, _we could totally fuck behind that rock over there and no one would even know._

He turned away sharply and if he was anyone else he’d certainly be hacking into his bucket. But alas, he simply began to stalk pointedly in the other direction. Although you would like to note he wasn’t _entirely_ annoyed. Or objecting.

The personal comms crackled. _“Sir. We found someone.”_

“Where.”

_“Just over the hill.”_

So what remained of the Garroters all marched to the hill. And over the hill. And when you reached the top—

 _Huh_.

“FN-2187.”

You trudged carefully down the steeper incline, eyes on your new captive.

 _We meet again_.

Two stormtroopers had him by the arms, the sleeves of his leather jacket scrunched up tight in their fists.

“My name is Finn.” _And you don’t scare me_. So much defiance.

You snorted. His eyes flicked to you and you stared him down in challenge. You remembered him sort of—beyond that whole trying to shoot you situation. Never a patient, always a patient-maid. Or a visitor, whatever. Nice enough. Too nice, really. You thought you remembered removing a boil on his foot once.

He shifted and something clinked at his side. A cylindrical hunk of shining metal that looked suspiciously like… But _no_. No way.

The anger was sudden and loud, and every stormtrooper in the vicinity practically jumped a foot in the air.

“ ** _Where did you get that_.** ”

Finn shifted back and forth. The stormtroopers holding him seemed a bit wary. “A friend gave it to me for safe keeping.”

You blinked and stared at the emo-bucket—incredulous. _Apparently, yes way._

You could just _see_ the way his face would be twisting up beneath his helmet. His lips would curl and his brow would jump down low and dark over an even darker glower.

“That _saber_ is **_mine_**.”

 “You said that last time too,” leather-jacket huffed. He looked like he was trying hard to peer down his nose at the both of you—to look tough and condescending and very much on top of things. But the poor dear was clearly a bit terrified. Wracked with nerves or otherwise, he still managed to force out a semi-smug, “—well, before we _beat_ you, anyways.”

And _oh,_ the Murder Princess was _steaming_. You could practically see it pouring out of his ears.

You reached for his mind with your own, pushing calm like foam over ocean waves. _Be rational about this. He’s probably trying to rile you up._

He shook his head and turned. With a bit more ‘inside-voice’ level of malice, he ground out, “FN-3852, remove the saber from FN-2187 and—”

“It’s mine now,” Finn continued, as if he had absolutely no self-preservation to speak of. The hunk of mystical metal clinked against his belt. “We’ve bonded.”

It seemed the lampshade was already ready to snap. “Remove it from his person—”

“—To think—” Finn rushed, practically squeaking now. “—I’m not even force-sensitive, and it’d still choose _me_ over **_you_** —”

Then Kylo _roared_. An actual, goddamn, _roar._ And lunged forward with what was clearly going to be a very successful attempt to carve leather-jacket’s face from his still breathing body. The two troopers holding him dove out of the way to avoid decapitation and Finn slipped backwards and away—free—skidding and sliding through the dirt as he wheeled out of the way of Kylo’s snarling saber.  

You sighed and raked a hand through your hair in frustration. _Of fucking course._

Jaina cocked her head at you and you drew your blaster. All of the other Knights hoisted their own garish blades, ready to intervene. Each stormtrooper had their weapons raised—armed and primed to fire. One shot in the head or even the leg and this would all be over so fast that you might even still have enough time to swing by that rock you’d pointed out earlier.

Then, like someone had decided to ring the proverbial dinner bell mid-Kylo bitch fit, all the hounds came a-running. And oh, did they run. Not too many, thankfully. Thirty or forty at most. You’d taken out larger crews than that with ease. ~~Or so you told yourself.~~

They bolted from the Jedi caves, screeching like the manic Gorgodons back on Illum.

~~( _Why_ the screaming? Always the screaming. It was, in fact, possible to charge into battle with more _finesse._ )~~

It took you until a handful of beats after you’d drawn your blaster to comprehend that you’d _actually_ fallen into a trap.

Yes. Those gornt runts, with hearts three sizes too large for warriors of any kind and brains slower than molasses, had actually manipulated one of their own and set a semi, sort-of-decent, _trap_.

_Well._

You hadn’t seen that coming.

Okay. Maybe a little.

~~Or a lot.~~

Either way, you weren’t the queen of spontaneity for nothing. This could be interesting. Fun even. In terms of booby traps, this was far from the best or most daunting monstrosity you’d been lured into. And hey, it would provide an exciting skirmish that not only met your expectations and murder quota, but didn’t _quite_ surpass them enough to be _too_ daunting.

The Jedi weren’t here. That much was painstakingly obvious. Sure, Kylo was going after Finn and his self-proclaimed lightsaber friend as if the stormtrooper-gone-rogue was a more than adequate substitute, but Uncle Skywalker and the Jakku girl were nowhere in sight.

There were just enough Resistance troops to require a split in the unit. Roughly half heading after Finn and his rapidly appearing buddies and the other turning to attack the flank. You turned to join your comrades in defending the hind. You shot at an approaching soldier once, twice. The first missed, the second hit home.

You would just have to keep—

A pointed screech of plasma and the blaster spiraled out of your fingers. You gaped and yanked your scorched palm back against your chest. Only to then immediately slam your still-throbbing hands up to clamp over your ears as a veritable _army_ of shrieking X-Wings blew past.

The fighters danced effortlessly around the jagged rocks and cliff sides that ought to have given the unit some semblance of shelter. They turned sharp and fast, careening through the air and zooming on straight for the center of the field. Then, of course, the flying rats let loose a wave of crimson canon fire and the ground exploded in a messy inferno of screaming lasers and molten stone.

They attacked again and again until the field was split definitively in two—the Garroters well and truly separated in an uneven mesh of dazed troopers and Knights alike.

A trap _within_ a trap. A _double_ trap.

_Holy **shit.** _

That was all kinds of unfair.

And this one was actually _decent._

They’d driven you apart and were in all likelihood going to use the opportunity to start picking you off one by one.

_Joy._

Except… no one was really _fighting._ Well, the Garroters certainly were. And having a jolly good time all the while. But the Resistance troops seemed to be more interested in avoiding hits and keeping you all thoroughly engaged. A few shots here, a few more there. _Pew, pew, pew._ Enough to keep your eyes on the battle but not enough that you were really in immediate danger of being blasted to death. Which was _odd_. Seeing as you had been shot at by these glorified turds many, many times before, and prior to this moment they hadn’t seemed to have many qualms about aiming for the most crucial parts of your anatomy.  

Then it hit you. _Ockham’s razor. The Law of Parsimony. Goddamn common **sense**_ **.**

It seemed like they were trying to distract you because they _were actually trying to **distract** you. _

_Think, think, think._ They’d tried to sequester Kylo away from the rest of the hoard of manic war criminals. They were doing their absolute best to keep his reinforcements occupied. They weren’t here on some revenge driven quest to murder the beast in cold blood, but ( ~~if you were keeping up with the fairy tale analogies here~~ ) to swipe the treasure from under its crooked nose.  

Three of the X-Wings touched down—an orange fighter not twenty-five yards from where Olin and another Knight were currently skewering a poor Resistance recruit, and two not far from where Kylo was still playing a more deadly version of tag with leather-jacket.

They were going to **_take_** him.

And to think, he’d told you everything would be fine. Easy-peasy. A cake walk. _Ba-freaking- **humbug**._

_“Doctor!”_

No time for that now. You spun out of the way of a goon or two, eyes roving over the opposite side of the valley, half-choked in flame and soot by this point. A gloved hand snagged your arm and you twisted, dragging its owner over the heel of your boot and down to the ground. The metal covering said hand’s knuckles pinched your skin unpleasantly and you could feel the sharp ridges cutting a bit too deep for comfort, but _no_. You weren’t going to let them distract you. Not now that you’d finally figured out the rather insidious objective of this whole fiasco.

_“Doctor!”_

Of course they wanted him alive. He was Luke Skywalker’s _nephew_ for pete’s sake. Of _course_ they’d try to take him! How could you be so _stupid._

_“Doctor!”_

You searched and searched and kept on pushing _THEY’RE HERE FOR YOU. GET AWAY. GET **AWAY**._ But it was so _loud_ and if you could bottle the definition of ‘chaos’ and all it stood for, and then let that concentrated hell loose as you saw fit, _this was that_. Goddamn—how were you supposed to _know_ if you were getting through to him if you couldn’t _see_ him—

“ **DOCTOR!** ”

You spun, livid, “What, _what, WHAT?!_   **WHAT** could POSSIBLY be SO IMPORTANT that you—”

That same gloved hand smashed into your mouth, and you went down.

You landed in the dirt with a wheeze. Another set of hands hauled you up from the ground and for a moment you swore you were airborne. Then, you were back in the mud—coughing and hacking and trying desperately to pull air into your lungs. Your assailant was howling bloody murder, but the ear-piercing wailing lasted only a few scant seconds before Olin’s blade had cleaved his head from his shoulders.

The knight pulled you to your feet and you swayed, queasy.

“Are you alright?”

“Kylo,” you tried, words unnaturally heavy on your tongue and hands fisting the dark fabric draped over his front to stay upright. “They’re trying to capture him—”

He didn’t seem like he was bothering to pay any head your ramblings. “We need to get you out of here.”

Your feet twisted and tangled beneath you and you were going down again. The Knight caught you before you plummeted straight to the dirt and propped you back up.

“No. You don’t understand—” The rest just couldn’t make it past your lips. Too bloated and heavy in your throat. Everything was moving too quickly. Too much of a blur. Nothing but. Like the planet had been drugged to the gills and left to spin as it pleased. _Or,_ you brain volunteered helpfully, _like **you** had been drugged_.

“We need to—”

You could feel the heat of the blindingly blue blaster bolt as it whizzed past your ear. Then you were _both_ tumbling forward—down, down, down. Two more sets of gloved hands appeared and scooped you up and away.

_“Go! GO!”_

Your head lolled back and forth uselessly as you tried to seek out your companion. Olin was sprawled across the dirt—bolt burn through his chest. Or his ribs. Or shoulder. You couldn’t tell. Too much fabric, too much swirling and whirling—You were being shoved and tossed around so quickly and the world just downright refused to _stay still_.

A set of heavy cuffs were slapped around your wrists and you were hauled back through that soft green grass and behind the orange X-Wing. Another ship hidden in its shadow. Small, but more than large enough to stage a proper kidnapping.

Another bought of fighter fire drew your hazy gaze but you could _hardly_ force yourself to focus on all the pretty lights and exploding things.

_“Poe, we gotta’ go!”_

No, no, _no._ This wasn’t how things were supposed to _happen_ —

You were carted up the metal ramp and your stomach heaved unpleasantly. What had they _given_ you? _When? **How?**_ If you had been able to _see_ enough to aim, you would have hurled all over their shoes.

Even with all the wonderful drug-cotton clogging up every one of your senses, you could still manage to pick out the roar of the X-Wings as they shot off in retreat. A blaster’s shriek. The rumbling snarl of an unstable blade.

The cargo bay’s gate closed behind you in one, fell, swoop and the ship shot into the sky.   

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	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look,” you held up your hands in a half-hearted, still-very-stoned, attempt at mollification, “if, by some very, very slim chance, I’ve managed to abstractly impact any of you, it was nothing personal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ding, dong, the bitch aint dead.  
> The bitch being me.
> 
> Sorry for the vanishing act yet again. Not at all polite. But, here I am. Fresh faced and ready to kick some butt.
> 
> This chapter is a bit underwhelming I would guess. Not very long. A lot of dialogue. No Knight in shining, emo, armor. More of a setup for what's to come. Either way, I hope there's enough sass to make it enjoyable.
> 
> See ya~

This was, oddly enough, your first foray into the world of kidnapping.

So far it wasn’t entirely awful, but in your rather respectable opinion, the whole thing just seemed far too complicated. First you had to _find_ the hostage. Then _drug_ them. Then _carry_ them away. Then _tie them up_ and _watch_ them to make sure they didn’t escape. You honestly couldn’t see yourself being worth all that effort.

The cargo bay was pleasant enough you supposed. The floor was clean at least. ~~You really would have been irked if you’d had to spend the entire journey huffing half-formed dust bunnies and crumbly shoe dirt.~~ The double doors slid open with a _hissssssss_ and you squinted into the field of bright white light that flooded your makeshift cell. A few lumpy shadows (which you assumed were just people and not the very ugly and horrible monsters your doped up brain made them out to be) dodged in and out of the light like moths. Then you were being hauled up again and dragged towards the rest of those awful blobs.

Your head spun and the world went with it. You lolled forward, limp and entirely useless—stomach roiling and saliva pooling at the back of your throat as every part of you fought to keep from spewing your breakfast all over the floor. If anyone here was a spy for the First Order and saw you like this your reputation would be _ruined._

_“—Finn was still there—”_

_“—this better have been worth it—”_

_“—you heard what the General said—”_

_“—but that doesn’t mean—”_

_“—either way, I don’t like it—”_

You were shoved forward with a worrisome _thud_ that left your knees singing in discomfort and you pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth—swallowing the stinging swell of nausea that bubbled up along your tongue.  

“ ** _Easy_** , guys, easy _._ We’re the gentlemen here.”

You glanced up from beneath a veil of flyaway hairs. One of your many captors knelt down to greet you, cordial smile twisting his lips. He reached out a hand to steady your swaying.

“Better?”

You looked him over, still rather dazed. Tan skin with dark eyes and a heavy set brow. A firm, square, jaw littered with fine stubble and a head full of artfully tousled black hair—all set against the most _hideous_ orange jumpsuit you had _ever_ seen. Like… _what?_ He was so attractive, but then he had to go and dip himself in that god awful neon catastrophe.

The corner of his grin quirked upwards, flashing a brilliant set of pearly whites.

“Like what you see, doc?”

 ** _Doc, doc, doc._** Your head spun and you fought to maintain what little semblance of balance you’d managed to pull together. 

“Oh, you’re lovely, but I prefer my men in black,” you lamented, tongue tripping over a few of the harsher syllables. Who knew narcotics hated the letter ‘k’ so much? Not you.

Another twitch of the lips. “I bet you do.”

Your eyes narrowed, woozy. “What did you give me?”

“Renatyl.” He quirked a brow. “Any negative side effects?”

 _The bounty hunter’s drug_. Perfect. They’d fucking _roofied_ you. Such class.

You tilted your head at him and pointedly allowed your gaze to jump around the ship. “I wasn’t aware the Resistance took medical professionals as war prisoners.”

“It would seem you’re the exception, doc.”

You nodded sagely. “Of course.”

You squinted at his face a little more closely. You decided you liked his eyebrows. Very shapely. It was a shame Kylo would probably fry them straight off his forehead.

“Sorry, I didn’t manage to catch your name during all the—” you jangled your cuffs pointedly.

“Poe Dameron,” he supplied pleasantly. “Pleasure to meet you, doc.”

“Yeah, you too.” You blinked a bit to clear the fuzz at the corners of your eyes. It didn’t help. You settled for staring up at the ceiling—at least _that_ seemed like it was able to stay still. Sort of.  You exhaled sharp through your nose, stuffy and loud. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t know what you’re expecting to get out of me. I’m a medic _,_ not a soldier.”

“We don’t need to talk about you,” he offered. “We can start with that boyfriend of yours.”

_Oh snap._

They knew.

 _Well, duh they know,_ your brain fired back. They’d gone so far out of their way to scoop you up, and you doubted it was because they were just _so excited_ to witness the legendary powers of your sass up close and in person.  

You swallowed and twiddled your thumbs in your lap.  

“Oh.”

His smile was sharp. “Yeah. _Oh_.”

“I don’t know how much he’d appreciate you calling him that,” you managed to force out rather coolly ( ~~and fairly level, all things considered~~ ). “He does have an image to uphold—evil, dark, lord and all that.”

Poe hummed, grin still in place but much of that good humor was gone. “Kylo Ren and his Unit have been wiping out our troops by the dozens. Good men and women, _murdered_ in cold blood. And for what?” there was that anger now—what you’d been expecting from the beginning. “To draw out Luke? Rey? All that death to find _two_ people.”

You shrugged. “I guess so.”

Dark eyes narrowed in distaste and you stared right on back.

Oh come on. What did he want you to say? _I’m so, **so** sorry. They made me do it, I swear. The money’s not even that good. Do you know how much they pay me? It’s practically criminal. **Save me** , oh mysterious hot guy. _You swallowed once more and very suddenly remembered how you’d wanted to barf all over the floor. Between the remnants of the Renatyl swirling in your circulatory system and your present company, it was an incredibly tempting idea.

“How can you be so—” he looked strapped for words.

You forced yourself to squash the ever-tangy taste of rising bile and instead bit back a bit too petulantly, “Oh, come on. Do you know how many times I’ve been _shot_ by you people?”

You held up seven whole fingers.

“That’s because you’re a _murderer_ ,” a woman behind Poe snapped.

“Look, lady. In all my life I’ve only killed like twelve people. And three of those were by accident.”

Her face twisted up in revulsion, and man, that kind of brow contortion could _not_ be natural.

The… _thing_ to Poe’s left was practically hissing at you—flat orange face flamed up red as a ripe tomato. He looked familiar in the way that all non-humans felt a bit familiar. Or maybe his long lost siblings had been hopping a ride on one of the ships y’all had hijacked and… _poofed_ out of existence.

“Look,” you held up your hands in a half-hearted, still-very-stoned, attempt at mollification, “if, by some very, very slim chance, I’ve managed to abstractly impact any of you, it was nothing personal.”

His drooping jowls gnashed together unpleasantly and he snarled, “ _You’re insane_.”

“What? No I’m not.”

“Alright, guys, alright. Take it easy.” Poe stepped back into the bitch fight with all the practiced elegance of a man who had stopped many a bar brawl over the course of his far too chaotic life. The anger creasing his eyes had been smoothed back over to that smug whatever-it-was that made up his perfect face, and he rested a hand firmly on your shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

You frowned. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

He stood straight. “Alright then.” He nodded to the orange beasty beside him. “Mister Asty, get us moving.”

You blinked, a bit of slimy, cool, worry worming its way into your guts. “Where are we going?”

Poe smiled, ever cordial. “Home.”

“Yours or mine?”

He laughed. “Well we can’t really take you back yet, doc. We went to a lot of trouble to get you here.”

“I noticed.” And others must have undoubtedly as well. Olin had been coming for you. He’d been— _he was…_ ~~you couldn’t really wrap your mind around the notion that your first Knight friend had been shot down trying to keep you safe, so you chose not to~~. Surely _someone_ must have seen your captors hauling your unconscious butt onto their ugly ass ship. In fact, you would bet that a whole _lot_ of someone’s had noticed. Probably even the King Emo himself, and—

_Oh._

Oh no.

You sighed—long, overdramatic, and very, _very_ exasperated—and glared up at a dented metal panel in the ceiling. That chilly nausea was slithering its way back into your gut. _It’s a trap_. Of course it would be a trap. Because if there was one thing these people seemed to use in excess, it was mother fucking _booby traps._ _God_ , why couldn’t people just charge at each other on the battle field with pointy sticks and rocks? Like the good old days of plagues and non-existent plumbing. Why did everything have to be about ‘ _intrigue_ ’ and ‘ _plans_.’ It was no damn fun.

“How _stupid_ do you think he is?”

Poe blinked slow, taken aback. It took him a second or two to catch on to your train of thought, and when he did, he smirked—proud. “Pretty stupid.”

And you grumbled under your breath, irritated beyond measure. Because, _yeah._ He would come. _Obvious trap or otherwise_. “Fair enough.”

Poe leaned forward to brush bits of battle-dirt and ash off those garish pants. He reached out to pat your shoulder. “Enjoy the ride, doc. We’ll be there before you know it.”

You closed your eyes and vomited all over his ugly boots.

.

.

.

The Resistance’s home base was underwhelming.

You’d been expecting something, I don’t know, _interesting_. Something that could account for the fact that this ragtag group of people was somehow managing to wage a full scale intergalactic _war_ with the First Order.

But no. When you touched down on D’Qar, you were met with mud and wild grass and a couple rows of dilapidated X-Wings hidden by thick sheets of grey fog.

Ingrained prejudices against their whole operation tainting your opinions or otherwise, the First Order really did seem incredibly well organized and well-staffed in comparison to… well, whatever this thing was that the Resistance deemed a settlement. Admittedly, you weren’t treated to much of D’Qar’s landscape during the time you were being carted from points A to B, C, all the way to F, but the bowels of its fortress were telling enough. A crumbling concoction of vines and brown stone that seemed ready to collapse at the drop of a hat. Thick chains of electrical cables crisscrossed the dirt floor and it honest to goodness looked like there were trees growing _through_ the walls.

It was aesthetically pleasing in the way that you found all vintage things pleasing to look at, but other than that… Well. Let’s just say you were a bit surprised they hadn’t all come down with gangrene, or been confined to their toilets due to an E.coli outbreak or something equally as dull.

You kicked your feet idly back and forth against the wall and mentally traced the numerous cracks in the ceiling of your prison.

The Resistance's high priority cell was not so much a cell as it was a tiny bedroom with a heavily reinforced door. You’d seen the prisons that the First Order boasted, and the differences between your current housing and those death traps seemed pretty extensive. No metal cuffs hanging off the walls. No torture table. No ominous lighting. They’d even given you an extra pillow. The whole experience was nothing if not surreal.

You had a steady stream of visitors. First, a team of medics who took all kinds of samples from the various nooks and crannies your body had to offer. Then a strange looking man dressed all in green who flooded your veins with anesthetic before wedging a tracking chip into the back of your arm. Poe even stopped by to check in—made sure that you hadn’t doubled over and drowned in your own vomit and everything. Pleasant stuff like that.

So there you were, lying in your new bed ~~(not nearly so plush and comfortable as your own~~ ), kicking the wall and counting the various strange splotches in the ceiling, when the source of all intergalactic drama himself appeared in your doorway.

Luke Skywalker was not so different from what you remembered of him from the skirmish on Felucia. His face was just as haggard, his bright blue eyes just as sad. Your gaze flicked down to his mechanical hand in distaste before settling back on the wrinkles framing his mouth.

“You know him.”

You craned your neck back to get a better look at one of the most powerful men in the universe. “Pardon?”

“You know my nephew,” he continued. “Better than anyone else, I think.”

“Yes, I know him,” you said, brow tugged down low.

“You love him.”

You blinked. “I do.”

The old Jedi seemed to be searching for something—blue eyes locked with your own, immobile, and a familiar tickle worked its way into the back of your skull.

“Can he be saved?”

“From what?” you frowned. “Snoke?” **_Did_** _he need to be saved from Snoke?_ Kylo had said something about that—about being manipulated by the Supreme Leader for his power—but… Pawns needed to be around to be used, right? Snoke wasn’t going to _kill_ him, right? _Right?_ —

“From himself.”

You shook away the panicked funk that had settled over your nerves. “What?”

“Can he be saved from himself?” Skywalker repeated, patient and gentle.

 _Saved from himself?_ Psh. He didn’t need to be saved from **_himself._** _Maybe from his fashion sense_. But that was hardly some sort of life-or-death—

Then you stopped and thought of _yellow._

And that seemed to be all Skywalker needed to see. The itch in your brain vanished and he brought a hand to his face to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He looked… not quite distraught. But a subtle sort of distress. _Acceptance_. The bitter sort. He turned then, seeming ready to just up and _leave_ without even a goodbye.

“Wait.”

He paused and looked at you, curious.

“Is…” You gnawed at your split lip, unsure exactly how to go about asking what was on your mind. Or at least, how to word it so that his reply wouldn’t consist of some sort of cryptic, metaphysical, bullshit. “Is there something wrong with him?”

“You know there is.”

 _Ugh_.

“But _what_ is wrong with him?” you pressed.

Skywalker’s gaze fell and he frowned at the root spiraling out of the wall just behind your feet.

“There is a darkness in him.” _Well duh_. Blue eyes narrowed in irritation and you shrugged as best you could—hanging half on the bed and half off. “He’s killed many people. More than I could count.”

You quirked a brow. _The Death Star. TIE fighters. Pilots. Troopers_. You’d heard the stories, same as everyone else. “So have you.”

“That was different.”

“Kylo doesn’t think so.”

“Ben.”

_There was that name again._

You tilted your head, a bit puzzled. “Who’s Ben?”

The elderly Jedi smiled—soft and sad. “My nephew.”

But... _Kylo_ was his nephew. Unless— _Le gasp._ Could it be? All this time, you’d been calling him by some sort of angsty pseudonym? You felt your life spinning out of control in the way that one did whenever discovering something ultimately meaningless, but at the same time entirely _earth shattering_. Like when you’d first learned that a tomato was a fruit, or that barcode scanners scanned the white bits rather than the black.

You twisted over onto your stomach so you could look at him properly.

“Are you kidding?”

His smile—though still small—certainly looked more amused, more fond. “He was named after one of the best men I ever knew.”

“I…see.”

 _Ben_. You rolled it over your tongue and around your head. You liked Kylo better.

The corners of his lips flattened at that and before he could move to abandon you to the monotony of prison life, you piped in with, “What’s going to happen now? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Kylo Ren is going to come for you.”

You gestured vaguely for him to continue. You’d figured that much out on your own already. “And _after_ that?”

 “We’ll see.”

_They were going to kill him, weren’t they? **Joy.**_

“It might not come to that.”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced.

You flopped onto your back with a sigh and smooshed the palms of your hands into your eyes until you saw stars. You could hear the hinges on the ancient steel door squeak in protest as he moved to leave.

“You know,” you said, more to the ceiling than anything else, “he misses his mom. He pretends he doesn’t. But he does.”

You cast the Jedi one final look, curious. He was standing in the threshold, gaze locked for the first time on the cracked kyber crystal hanging from your throat. You tilted your head, letting your hair fall to obscure it, and asked:

“Is she alive?”

The door closed firmly behind him.

.

.

.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh.
> 
> In-laws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally starting writing this chapter the night the last one was uploaded. Yes. It took me THAT LONG to finish this hot mess. It just kept spiraling further and further out of my control until I finally managed to wrangle a good cut off point and force myself to end it there. 
> 
> On the bright side, this officially takes up the mantle of 'longest chapter of the story,' so I hope y'all enjoy it. 
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for being patient with me and the awful update schedule.
> 
> Tally ho.

Someone was in your cell.

Specifically, someone with three-buns hanging loose off the back of her skull and, judging by the silent ‘murder-death-murder’ aura pulsing over you in heady waves, a damn large chip on her tan shoulders.

You blinked awake and stared at a particularly splotchy water-spot marring the wall.

“You know, if you’re going to kill me, you might as well do it and get it over with.”

“I’m not going to _kill_ you.” She almost sounded _disturbed_ at the accusation—like you couldn’t read her vivid, crimson anger a mile away. “That’s wrong. That’s _cruel_ and evil. And I’m not like that.”

“Not like me, you mean,” you offered, ever helpful.

No reply.

You sighed and sat up, rubbing the last crusty remnants of sleep from your eyes.

“Most people would just wait until the morning for an interrogation,” you yawned. “The dark of night is usually reserved for more dramatic things, you know? Assassination attempts, covert romances—that sort of trash.” You crossed your legs and cracked your back. “You already said you aren’t here to kill me, and somehow I don’t see you as the propositioning type.” 

She grit her teeth. Even in the shadows, you could make out the jagged slashes of scars that you were _almost_ positive hadn’t been there the last time you’d crossed paths.  Thin white lines that ran up her arms and shoulders—a notably rugged one across her cheek. Like a bit of flame had jumped up and taken a bite out of her face. Or perhaps it’d been the edge of particularly unstable saber. _Huh._ Seemed like Miss Tri-Bun been closer to meeting her end during that stint on Felucia than you’d realized.

You arched a brow. “Is there something you _needed_ , or can I go back to sleep?”

“You—” she paused, muscles jumping in her jaw, “Your people took someone from me. And I need to get him back. I need to know where he is.”

You assumed she meant leather-jacket. Rogue trooper _FN-2187._ The one who spent a hella’ lot of time squawking _“Rey, Rey, REY,”_ like it was going out of style, and coincidentally the one who _also_ thought it was _not_ **the stupidest thing in the entire universe** to taunt Kylo Ren to his face.

Her clear brown eyes narrowed. “Finn. His name is Finn.”

Whatever.

She looked a bit uncomfortable and you wondered if your thoughts were poking at her own in all sorts of unpleasant ways. It was a nice idea. Instead of pursuing it, you took a moment to gesture pointedly to your creaky mattress and stone chamber.

“How _exactly_ am I supposed to know where he is? I’ve been _here_.”

“You know something,” she accused. “Where they’d take him. Where they’re going. _Anything._ ”

“Well, according to all of you, they’re coming _here_. So you should have nothing to worry about.”

“That’s not good enough!” She sounded desperate. A bit unhinged. Tired, certainly. Worn down. It seemed like she’d been asking these questions for a while now.

You canted your head and rested your elbows on your knees. “You’re not supposed to be in here, are you?”

A bit of guilt flashed across her features, but she schooled them quickly enough. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, of course not. Just making a general observation…” You tapped your fingers against your chin. “He would’ve been taken by the Garroter Unit, as I’m sure you know,” you said. “And we don’t exactly have a base. He’s wherever they are.” _Or in pieces_.

You had a feeling it was the latter. And judging by how violently tri-bun winced, she’d thought of that too. 

“It must be strange for you,” you said.

She shook her head, like doing so could somehow shake off the unpleasant images your brain had no doubt concocted of her friend torn into itsy bitsy shreds and scattered across the galaxy like some sort of off-brand fertilizer. “It’s your fault.”

It was most certainly _not_ your fault. But that wasn’t what you’d meant, so you let the accusation slide.

“Not the kidnapping thing.” _Well… actually, yes. In a way._ “ _Strange_ ,” you continued, “to finally realize that your team doesn’t care about its own players. I mean, even _I_ was expecting you all to be holding hands and dancing around a bonfire singing kumbaya or something.” You paused for a moment to pick at the edge of a hangnail. “But, _wow._ You all manipulated a dying pilot in order to lay a trap for us, then sent poor leather-jacket out on a suicide mission all to—what, exactly? Lure Kylo here? Kill him?” Poe had called the Garroters evil for slaughtering _all those people_ just so that you could manage to track down two overpowered ones. But wasn’t the Resistance doing the _exact same thing_?

“ _That’s not true_.”

You shrugged and pulled off the last stubborn bit of the hangnail.

“Let me guess,” you hummed. “ _‘We need to save Finn! He’s in trouble!’ ‘No, young grasshopper. There are more important things to worry about right now— **later**._ ’ Then ‘later’ gets here and nothing’s happened. And the time gap between the disappearance and the ‘later’ gets longer and longer until you just _know_ there’s no hope for him anymore.” You tilted your head. “How long have I been here exactly?”

She stormed out of the room, cell door slamming behind her with enough force that you were sure she must have woke half the base.

You sprawled back on your thin mattress with a sigh.

You’d never been very good at the whole ‘psychological manipulation/torture’ thing. You were all about the physical, ‘body’ side of medicine—not the mind. You usually left that shit fest to the board certified psychiatrists who knew what they were dealing with.

But, hey. It was always nice to try.

.

.

.

You were busy tracing and retracing the irritating little lump in your skin where the tracking chip had been wedged into your arm when the door to your prison slid open yet again. And in hobbled… _well._ You weren’t quite sure _who_ it was to be honest. Certainly someone you’d never seen before.

“Can I help you?”

No response.

 _What was it these people and refusing to respond to basic courtesies_? So very rude. Even Hux had more class.

The graying woman stepped just a bit further beyond the threshold and the door slipped shut behind her. She parroted your name at you and you sighed. Who _else_ were you supposed to be? Did they really have so many First Order doctors stashed away here that they could forget who you were? Somehow, you doubted that.

She didn’t continue the interrogation on her own so you gestured to your slumped-over self with a flourish.

“ _Yes_. That’s me.”

She nodded, seeming unbothered by your sass. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared you down with far too much scrutiny for your liking. She shouldn’t have been so intimidating—surely, she was hardly more than five feet tall. Both Kylo and Hux would tower _at least_ a solid foot over her, and you’d gone toe-to-toe with those bozos plenty of times.

After much uncomfortable fidgeting on your end, your visitor uncrossed her arms, crossed them again, and asked, “What’s that around your neck?”

You had a pretty strong feeling she already knew. You rolled onto your back and decided you didn’t want to answer.

She sighed and her gaze fell a bit. “Did Ben give it to you?”

“Kylo,” you corrected. Because it felt like it needed correcting.

She twitched, clearly uncomfortable, and you frowned up at her. There was something… familiar about her displeasure.

“And I gave it to myself,” you finished. _He’d just helped with the construction bit of it._

She huffed. “I see.”

You sort of squinted at her and her oddly recognizable face.

It was the eyes that finally made it click. A set of clear, molten brown irises that you’d seen each morning and each night for the past lord-knew-how-many months. The shape was a bit different (not as hooded, more round and not quite so narrowed) but the color—spot on. Dark cocoa. Or thick-grained walnut wood. A lovely shade of chocolate-bronze that you could very well identify in your sleep at this point.

_Ugh._

**_In-laws._ **

Those carbon-copy eyes narrowed and you wondered if she’d managed to hear that bit. She was Kylo’s mother after all, and though she in all likelihood did not fall into the ‘Jedi’ category of Force awfulness (seeing as there were apparently only two of them out there, and you were thoroughly acquainted with both at this point), he must have gotten the Force from _somewhere_.  

“Where did you meet him?”

“The First Order.”

She glared down at you, sour. _Well, what had she been expecting you to say?_

“You know him well?”

Luke had asked these same questions _days_ ago. Moreover, the inquiry sounded so _strained_ that you almost wondered if there was some mysteriously invisible blaster pressed against her lower back ~~however improbable and awesome that would be,~~ forcing her to stand there and communicate with you.

Her brown eyes had tightened around the corners now—sad, confused, and almost hateful. “We need to know **_how_** you know him— _why_ he allowed it.”

You didn’t really like what she was implying.

The lump on your arm was itching something fierce at this point and you’d already been stewing in the dark clouds of a particularly _foul_ mood before she’d made her entrance. In short, you were in no mood to play nice with the emo Barbie’s long lost family.

So you rolled onto your side and said, “When he gets here, he’s going to kill you. Just like he killed his father.”

You were facing the wall so you couldn’t see her leave, but the reverberating _slam_ of the thick metal door was telling enough.

.

.

.

She was back the next morning.

“I think it’s safe to say that the two of us got off on the wrong foot.”

You accepted her offering of warm tea and crackers. Most of that animosity had been your doing, but you decided that if she was caving already, you’d let her do her thing and shoulder the blame.

“My name is Leia Organa,” she said, presenting you with another cracker. “Ben is my son.”

 _Kylo,_ you wanted to correct. But you just nodded. “I know. You have the same eyes.”

“We do.”

You folded your arms over your abdomen and stared her down. Without another word, Leia turned on her heels—disappearing from the room almost as quickly as she’d arrived.

She left you the plate of crackers.               

.

.

.

You sneezed into your tea, sending hot leaf water splattering across your chin and cheeks.

“Are you sick?”

It was just a sneeze—probably dust. Your prison was hardly sanitary. You told Leia as much, too busy scrubbing half-dried tea droplets from your face to really pay her or her inquiry much thought.

That night, a young woman in an ugly brown vest dropped off a thick, scratchy blanket and a cup of pills. You dumped the pills behind your bed one by one but wrapped yourself up in the fluffy quilt like an adorable little burrito. It was pleasantly warm. You still sneezed puffs of hot air through the dust motes parading through the few beams of light, but you were cozy.

.

.

.

_I miss him._

_I miss his awful personality._

_I miss his butt._

No reaction.

You nibbled on your biscuit, pensive. “You didn’t have a cane the other day.”

Leia tapped the sleek staff against your bedpost. “It comes and goes. Some days are better than others.” A slight pause. “I was sick—very sick.”

You reached for another fluffy roll. “And whatever you had must’ve killed off a lot of tissue, I’m guessing.”

“Yes,” she shifted, putting more weight onto her cane.

_He is a sex machine with Godly, black, tresses that I tried to braid not once, not twice, but thrice._

Still nothing.

“That’s why you needed the Nysillin,” you ball parked, shoving the rest of the bread into your mouth. “That level of necrosis had to be pretty painful.”

“It was. Still is.” She smiled, a bit sly. “I remember hearing about your appearance on Felucia. That was the first time we got wind of you. You convinced the Felucians that we were there to steal from them. They fought us every step of the way after that.”

“Ah.” You would apologize, but you weren’t really all that sorry.

The last of the biscuits had vanished and you sighed, forlorn. Alas, _nothing gold can stay._

**_So much better than oatmeal._ **

She twitched, eyes widening in confusion before snapping up to yours—harsher, calculating.

 _Aha._ That one had gone through.

Leia straightened, tip of her cane clicking loudly as it dragged against the stone. “I’ll have more brought to you.”

You waved as she left.

_Volume. All about the volume._

.

.

.

It was like clockwork.

Each morning General Leia Organa appeared at your door. Each morning she stayed a bit longer. Absurd as it was, you had the oddest feeling that she _liked_ you. Or at the very least, she liked that she could talk to you about her son without being stared down in _horror,_ like his name was the verbal equivalent of the Candorian Plague.

“What are you going to do?” you asked. “When he comes for me.”

Because you’d been here almost two weeks at this point, and the clock was ticking away. You couldn’t imagine you’d be stuck here much longer.

“There’s still good in him, I know there is,” Leia said. “There’s a part of him that will always be my son—no matter how hard he tries to cut it out of himself.”

That didn’t answer your question.

It also seemed that you two had very different definitions of ‘good,’ and seeing as you were the _bad guy_ in this situation, the fact that your interpretation was the one that proclaimed Kylo Ren would never be any sort of societally acceptable form of ‘good’ again was a bit troubling.

Surely it was hard to lose your sole child to someone as ugly and banal as Snoke. But there was a point you had to let go. _Oh. You’re going against me and all I stand for? Murdering people? Destroying my shit with a glowing stick of doom? **And** being overtly emo in the process? _You would have booted your brat out the door.

“You’re going to try and turn him back to the Light,” you guessed.

“I’m going to try,” she said. The _‘and you’re going to help me’_ was heavily implied.

You snorted and sipped your tea. “Good luck with that.”

.

.

.

You were tired of waiting.

To be completely fair, you’d been here about sixteen days (you weren’t entirely certain on the specifics—you would give Leia credit where it was do. She hadn’t given in to any of your slanted questioning). Planning a solid rescue mission took time. If the First Order was going to attack the heart of this ugly hydra, they needed to be careful—to not rush into things and get themselves blown up. Charging in head first would just be bad for everyone involved. And even  bucket-head wasn’t _that_ stupid.

But you were not a patient person.

And as chill as General Braid-Bun-Hybrid was, you wanted _out_.

You were sick of tea and pleasantries—of goody-two-shoes nobodies glaring you to death whenever you needed to be escorted to the restroom. Your stomach hurt, your bed sheets needed to be changed, and the clothes they’d shoved you into were ugly as fuck. And you’d had _enough_.

And if Kylo and Hux and all the rest of ~~the people who tolerated you~~ your friends were too busy being caught up in whatever the fuck they were caught up in, then you were just going to have to do this whole ‘rescue’ thing on your own.

.

.

.

You thought and you thought.

You thought through your morning tea and biscuit breakfast. You thought as Leia tried to pry you once again for more information on her son. You thought through dinner rations, through your allotted time on the toilet. You thought on your bed. On the floor. Propped against the wall. And then on your bed again.

There were so many factors to take into account—the tracker in your arm, the literal army outside your door with two fucking space-monk-ninjas heading the front lines, getting _out of_ the room at all. It was all so convoluted and required so much effort that you were just about ready to give up.

But then you got an idea.

An awful idea.

A wonderful, _awful_ idea.

And _oh_ , this was going to be fun.

.

.

.

_…probably._

.

.

.

Rey was at your door the next morning with a plate of cold biscuits and an even colder mug of murky tea. You picked at the offering in distaste.

“Where’s Leia?”

She shrugged and looked awkwardly over your shoulder. “She’s busy.”

_Well, that certainly put a damper on things._

Her eyes narrowed. “Put a damper on what?”

You raised your cup in toast to the absent General. “Getting to know my mother-in-law.”

Brown eyes flew open wide as saucers. “You _married_ him?!”

“Well, no,” you confessed. “But we might as well be at this point.” _Then again, from what you understood, you had a lot more sex than most married people tended to—_

Tri-bun’s face blew up red as a tomato, then almost purple as it grew darker and _darker_ —all those freckles practically drowned in that vibrant color.

At the last minute you decided to toss in some flickering images of your favorite examples of said experiences ~~because why not?~~ and _whoosh_ —she was out the door in a heartbeat.

You nibbled on a chunk of the tacky bread. _Thank goodness._ You couldn’t have her in your head, spoiling things before you’d even had a chance to begin. Maybe that had been the point—get the mind reader in here to check up on you and your nefarious plans.

Well, you weren’t having it.

You sort of hoped they’d send Luke in next. His reaction would probably rank somewhere in the top ten of your ongoing list of _‘greatest things I have ever seen.’_

.

.

.

It was milk today.

An odd shade of blue that had you raising a brow in distaste, but as much as you weren’t exactly a _fan_ of drinking something that came from a creature as furry and smelly as Bantha, you still forced yourself to take a few mouthfuls of it. It was cloyingly sweet, but otherwise not entirely unpleasant. Nice to change things up a bit—give your palette a siesta from all that boiled leaf water.

So many days of tea. So, _so_ many days. At least you hadn’t gotten sick off of it (hard to get food poisoning from a bunch of dead, dried-up, weeds). So you hadn’t had to deal with stomach aching and cramping on top of the crippling boredom, and—

_Oh._

**_Oh no._ **

“What day is it?”

Leia frowned—the lines around her lips and eyes creasing deeper. She shifted in her chair and took a moment to sip at her own steaming drink. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“It’s important.”

Her smile was a bit thin. “Is it now?”

You nodded but paused, fingers interlocking over your knees. “If I guess, can you at least give me a yes or no?”

“I might.”

“Have I been here more than a week?”

“You know you have.”

“Two weeks?”

She frowned and your eyebrows shot half way up your forehead.

“ _Three_ weeks?”

“You tell me,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve been keeping count.”

You’d _tried_. You’d failed. ~~All their damn drugs at the start of your stay had made sure of that~~. It was hard to figure out specific timelines when your brain had been warped into a ball of useless, mush. That ship had long since sailed. But you weren’t going to _admit_ that. “I haven’t.”

You paused and the probing look she shot you was far from subtle.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

**_Yes._ **

Her brow curled down low and tight. You slurped your milk and amended— ** _maybe_.**

“ _Maybe_?” she parroted, a bit bewildered.

You set your semi-tolerable, blue, death drink aside and rolled over so you were facing the wall. You spoke more to the rock than your guest when you said—

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.”

Her cane clicked as it grasped for purchase on the uneven, stone floor.

“If you say so. I’ll be back later.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

She hummed and retrieved your mug.

.

.

.

“You look better.”

You stared at the oatmeal in distaste and Leia smiled. _Cheeky little asshole with her weird ass braid-bun and perfect eyeliner._ She was pretty small. You could probably sit on her and put her out of commission.

“You thought of it once,” she said, far too amused by your stewing.

You made a face. “That doesn’t mean I _missed_ it.”

“I thought a taste of home might do you some good.”

“The last thing I need is to be reminded of _this_ ,” you grumped, stabbing into the mush with a bit too much malice.

“And what _do_ you need, then?” she asked with that familiar—though currently obnoxious as all Hell—hauteur. Like she knew pressing you with drowned oat remains would break your soul and leave you happily spilling your innermost worries.

You stabbed it again.

“Some water, I guess. Folic acid. Food.” A pause. “ _Good_ food.”

She frowned. “Folic acid?”

“Oh, and you may have to up the portions,” you added, watching the goop drip off the edge of your spoon and back into the bowl with a wet _plop._ “I'm not really eating for one anymore.”

It took a second. Well, four to be precise. But once those four, teensy, moments had passed, General Leia Organa's mouth fell open and she gaped—color bleached from her pink cheeks. Those familiar brown eyes of hers roved over you from head to toe and you crossed your arms protectively over your abdomen.

" _You_ —" her voice spluttered in and out, like she couldn't manage to wrap her mind around the concept. She took a moment to visibly compose herself before speaking—voice harsh, but sharp eyes wet and warm. “You do understand what this means, don't you?”

"Of course I do." Your arms tightened. " _I am_ a doctor. I know what comes next."

"That's not what I meant."

You sighed and let your head fall back to thwack against the stone wall of your cell. "I know." **_This line of jerks was never going to end._**

She rapped the blunted end of her cane erratically against her palm once, twice, three times, before crossing her arms snugly over her chest. “You’ll be brought to the med bay as soon as possible to… make sure.” A pause. “I’ll have you guarded.”

A simple ‘thank you’ might have sufficed, but you felt she deserved a bit more sucking up to. So you nodded your gratitude and tossed out a full-bodied:

“Way to go, grandma.”

She looked warmed—you'd even go so far as to describe the emotion playing across her face as _'touched._ '

And because you just didn’t know when to quit, you interlocked your fingers over your tummy and added, “So. Leia Junior good with you? I think he’ll throw a fit.”

Hidden as it was, her smile lit the room.

You were being a sort of terrible person, but you had trouble forcing yourself to care. It was her fault. She should have never brought oatmeal into this.

.

.

.

The pair of sour guards who showed up to escort you were entirely late and even more unpleasant.

Two, gaunt faced, Jane Does with no defining features and no personality. It was honestly a bit hard to tell the two of them apart. Perhaps they were knockoff androids—freshly released to the mass market and yet to be perfected.

You looked around the twisting hallways curiously. You had never been allowed to walk through this part of the base (your potty-route was _very_ specific), but even so, you were _sure_ there ought to be more people/creatures/things milling about. The dank, grey, passageways were practically empty. It was odd. But strangely reassuring. Perhaps something awful had happened. Or was _about_ to happen. Either way, the thought put you in an excellent mood.

You shifted the shackles around you wrists and debated how painful it would be to dislocate your thumb.

“Man, is it hot in here or is it just me?”

Guard #1 sent you the most withered of withering glowers.

“That was a legitimate question,” you added helpfully, “not a come on.” A pause. “Not that you're not attractive. In your own way,” you tacked on politely. “But I'm taken.”

“We're all aware of your relationship,” she spat.

Tough crowd, tough crowd.

“Right. _The devil's whore_ ,” you hummed. Even though no one had actually ever called you that. To your face at least. But it had a pleasantly dramatic ring to it, even if it was really quite offensive. If _anyone_ was the whore in this relationship, it was Kylo, without a doubt. “But seriously. Is there something wrong with the climate control?”

“We’re grounded,” Guard #2 hissed. “There _is_ no climate control.”

Huh.

You fanned at yourself a bit melodramatically. “Must just be a pregnant lady thing.”

Again, those near identical faces twisted up in revulsion.

At that moment, a semi-horrifying tremor seemed to run through the earth and Things One & Two froze like two very dour deer caught in some massive headlights.

You pointedly avoided staring at the shaken duo. “Is something wrong?”

“ _No_.”

_Alrighty then._

The Resistance’s med ward was ultimately nothing more than a worn down cavern with mismatched machines and cots scattered about. Your entourage parked themselves at the entrance with crossed arms held far too tight and even tighter scowls. The doctor who greeted you was pleasant enough at least—read: did not openly glare and/or wish death upon you. Perhaps it was a doctor comradery thing that outclassed whatever bad blood there was between your corresponding factions. You both had survived med school, and there was something to say about that.

You were sitting there all polite like with your hands folded up in your lap as he drew your blood when the ground shook once more and a tidal wave of dust came drifting down from the rafters above.

“Lyna? Cara?”

Your chaperones exchanged nervous glances before turning on the good doctor with matching looks that clearly screamed _‘PLEASE.’_

He rested a hand on your shoulder and nodded.

“Go. I’ve got her.”

Blasters drawn, they both ducked out into the hall and disappeared from sight.

The base trembled.

_Crack._

You winced.

He withdrew the needle from your forearm.

“Alright,” he mumbled, distractedly inverting the tube as he moved towards one of the hulking machines at the other end of the room. “This’ll just take a minute or two to run, and then—”

The doctor crumpled to the ground with a _thunk_.

You rolled your shoulders to get the kinks out before prodding at him with your toe make sure he was really out.

You sighed in relief when he remained comatose. _Thank goodness for all that stupid training._ It really would have been awful if you’d never learned how to drop someone. To think, you might have been _stuck_ here when all sorts of clearly _very fun_ things were going on upstairs.

You bit into your lip and forced your thumb back into its socket. The cuffs hung loosely around one wrist and you scoped the good doctor’s pockets for some kind of key. No such luck. You huffed. _Fine._ The bone saw it was.

Once the cuffs had been dealt with, you took a moment to hogtie your victim and drag him ~~a painstakingly slow process~~ to what looked like a supply closet. It took a bit of maneuvering to wedge his unconscious ass into such a cramped space, but you managed. You moved a box of syringes so that the edge wasn’t jabbing into his jaw and gave him a consolatory pat on the head. The poor dear.

_Now._

You perused the various cabinets and drawers, pocketing some things and quietly laying others out in a neat row across one of the gurneys.

Once your meager treasures had all been accounted for, you snapped a pair of ugly Nitrile gloves into place and poked clinically at the lump in your arm where the pesky tracking device was living. They’d shoved it right into the pit of your elbow—all snuggled up against your median nerve. You rubbed down the joint with chlorhex, then alcohol, then more chlorhex. The walls shook again—like someone was taking a sledgehammer to the infrastructure. Or shooting at it. A lot. The rafters let down another steady storm of monochromatic dust and you scrunched up your nose in distaste before clearing the dirt from your arm and re-sterilizing.

It didn’t seem like you had much time before the Resistance’s base came crumbling down over your head. You would have to do this fast. Which was never a _good_ thing when it came to impromptu operations—let alone one that danced so close to the most _major_ nerve in your arm.

You twirled the syringe full of Lidocaine back and forth between your fingers for a moment before recapping the needle and setting it aside. If you were going to keep up with the whole ‘escape’ thing after this, you were probably going to need all your limbs at attention.

You mentally traced out the little lump once more before retrieving the scalpel from the mess building beside you.

It was going to be hard—both in terms of pain tolerance and the more technical sense. It was going to be so _hard._ The person who had put it there probably thought it to be impossible.

But saving Kylo Ren had been impossible. Being shot had been impossible. _Stealing Hux’s cat_ had been impossible.

 _This,_ you thought as you lowered the blade to your skin, _was not impossible._

.

.

.

_“Dr. Fell! We need you to evacuate the prem—”_

You brought the torn hunk of metal down hard, and the Resistance soldier folded in on himself like paper. _Two-for-two_ —not bad at all. ~~Well. For you at least.~~

You plucked the blaster from where it was wedged into his belt and weighed it in your palms. A bit heavier than what you were used to, but it would have to do. You double checked your bandage job for stiffness and bleed-through one last time before coaxing the blaster in your hands to life and slipping out the door.

The first hall you snuck along, you pulled the whole spy shebang— _stealthy tiptoeing, peering around every corner, all but hugging your shadow against the wall._ But then the base gave another worrisome growl and you were very suddenly reminded of Star Killer and the way the ground had torn in half straight down the middle before just giving up and swallowing itself whole.

So you ran.

_Fast._

You’d barely managed to retrace your steps to your cell when you heard someone calling your name. Someone close.

 _Great._ You’d been emancipated for, what? Five minutes? And they’d already found you.  Nope. Not again. You were so close you could _taste_ it. You’d be out of here and cuddling with Millicent in no time! And you weren’t going to let some stupid, snot-nosed, _do-gooder_ with an awful taste in tan vests and cargo pants get in the way of that!

So when you came up to the next corner, you practically _bounded_ off the wall, aimed, and shot. The cerulean bolt lanced through the air and slammed into your foe head first. (Well, shoulder first, actually. If you were being anatomically correct here.) And he doubled over, gloved hand coming up to clasp over the black burn spreading over his arm.

“You _shot_ me!”

You gaped. “Olin?!”

The Knight of Ren snarled and shifted his grip on the blaster wound seared just below his collar bone. “You **SHOT** me!”

“You’re alive!”

“And you **_SHOT ME_**!”

“I didn’t _mean_ to! I just—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snarled, reaching forward with his good arm to haul you forward. “We need to go. This place is coming down.”

You stumbled after him, ducking around corridors and through half-dismantled doorways.

The ceiling gave a rather un-encouraging groan and he hissed, “Where _were_ you? You weren’t in your cell.”

“I was _trying_ to escape!” you argued. “Speaking of—you all took your sweet time with that! I was starting to think you were just going to _leave_ me here!”

He jerked you through another door that was less a door and more a blasted open hole in the stone. You almost tripped over a Resistance officer—sprawled on the ground in a pool of sticky blood.

“Oh, believe me _. I know_. Do you know how many troopers we lost? How much staff? Ren almost cut Gaeriel in _half_!”

You weren’t exactly sure who Gaeriel was, but you sympathized with him nonetheless.

The winding hallways eventually gave way to a semi-familiar control room and then to the outside world beyond. You stumbled over your feet making it out onto the grass and then on top of that, you were _certain_ that the sun may have just blinded you. But then you blinked a few times and you were able to make out the distant shapes of squabbling armies in the distance.

A slew of sleek, black, ships stood out stark against the grass and fog. More floated above—circled incessantly by warring X-Wings and TIE fighters. You blinked, confused.

“Where is everyone?”

“What?”

There were so few people out there. The Resistance’s base had been teaming with officers. There was no way so many of them had been wiped out so quickly…

_Was there?_

You couldn’t see properly from this far away. And now you were curious.

But that hardly mattered because Olin was tugging you along incessantly with his good arm towards a smaller ship parked besides a thick patch of mud and brush. The gate of the cargo bay lowered with a _clunk_ and he rushed you up into the vessel—dragging brown muck and clumps of green grass along the once sleek metal. You plopped yourself down in the co-pilot’s chair and stared out the window. If you sort of squinted you thought you could make out a few flashes of red and green clashing in the distance, but that could have been your over-enthusiastic imagination.

But speaking of bright, crimson, flashy things—

“Where’s Kylo?”

_He should be here. With **you.** Having glorious ‘yay you found me’ sex. _

~~Then again, if the black swathed terror had been the one searching you out in the bowels of the base, ** _he_** would’ve been the one you’d shot. And that would have been all kinds of unpleasant.~~

Olin situated himself in the captain’s chair and urged the ship to life. He took a moment to look over his deep fried shoulder before nodding to the flurry in the distance.

“He and the other Knights are to the North, dealing with Skywalker.” He fiddled with the controls for a moment and a map of neon lights illuminated the glass paneling. “We all agreed it’d be best for everyone if one of us went after you—not him.”

You could see the reasoning behind that.

“What happened?”

“We offered up that rogue stormtrooper as a trade for you,” he said. Something in the control panel started screaming. Olin mashed a few buttons and the noise died out quickly enough. “Not legitimately, of course. We just wanted to draw them out. The General saw it for what it was and turned us away, but Skywalker’s apprentice came forward anyways and led us straight to the compound.”

_Way to go, Tri-bun._

The ship began to growl something fierce and Olin motioned for you to strap yourself down.

“Ren and a few others are busy with the troops that stayed back, but otherwise—”The ship rose gently from the ground before shooting off into the sky. “—everything is set.”

“I see.” **_Wait…_** “ _Stayed back?_ They’re gone?”

“They evacuated.” _Ah, yes._ That one Resistance fellow had said something similar before you’d clocked him. “Before the planet could be destroyed.”

_What._

“ ** _What?_** ”

You couldn’t really see his face—what with that stupid, black, mask in place. But you had a feeling he was staring at you as if you were the _thickest_ human being to ever set foot into his personal space bubble.

“What _exactly_ did you think General Hux was doing all this time?”

_Pacing back and forth and muttering evilly under his breath? Smuggling more cats onto The Finalizer?_

The ship broke the atmosphere and came to orbit around a massive, black, monstrosity of a vessel that put _The Finalizer_ to shame. It was sleek and intimidating and not at all spherical, but even with all those things setting it apart from its predecessors, you _knew_.

_Death Star 3._

.

.

.

The ship was called _The Terminus_.

~~You were still calling it _Death Star 3._ ~~

It was the most outrageously upscale vessel you’d ever set foot in. Everything was new and clean and downright impressive. It seemed to intentionally set itself apart from every ship that had ever come before it.

A small possy of technicians and nurses carted you away to the brand-spanking-new infirmary in some sort of newfangled, hideous contraption that amounted to little more than a super fancy wheelchair. They tested you for what felt like hours—drawing blood samples, urine samples, scrapings from your intestinal tracts. You sat through half a dozen different attempts to locate other, secret, tracking devices. And then an awful concoction of awe and horror as you showed off the job you’d done on your antecubital.

Finally, when all that was said and done, you sat waiting patiently in your own private hospital room, snuggled into a ~~surprisingly~~ very comfy medical bed—sipping juice and surrounded by at least your body’s weight in pillows.

Hux appeared in the doorway and you had the absolutely insane urge to hug him. You didn’t, of course. That would have disrupted your nest. But it was there.

He moved to your bedside.

“Doctor.”

You nodded your greeting. “General.”

“The doctors tell me you’re not showing any signs of overt stress. A bit undernourished, but no injuries other than that which was self-inflicted.” A pointed glance to your freshly re-bandaged elbow.

You flexed. “I wasn’t aware of my options, and I had to get the tracker out.”

“I know.”

He stood there in silence for a few seconds, just staring off at the opposite wall, before saying, “I hope you understand all the repercussions of this incident.”

You frowned. “I don’t think I follow.”

He crossed his arms behind his back, uncrossed them, and finally decided to just take the chair already stationed beside you. He spent another long moment glowering down at his steepled fingers before continuing.

“Do you understand the full scale of the influence you have on Ren?”

You thought of Olin’s comments from earlier—of the climb in death toll that had apparently followed your abduction. “A little.”

Another long pause, like he kept chewing his words over and over but never found them enough to his liking to let them loose.

Instead, he stood again and made his way to the door.

“Be cautious, Doctor.”

“I always am.”

He looked at you like clearly that was a lie and he knew it.

“Be ready for him,” he said, stepping through the threshold. “He hasn’t been the most stable.”

“I think that most people would be a bit _unstable_ if someone close to them was kidnapped,” you pointed out.

Hux snorted and the door slid shut behind him.

.

.

.

You jolted awake to the jarring _crack_ of a helmet meeting floor.

You barely had time to register the fact that one moment you were all cuddled up nice and cozy under a stack of blankets, and the next you were being hauled up and smooshed against a familiar chest with far too much force for someone who’d been blissfully unconscious all of two seconds ago.

You felt like you should say something. But Kylo’s arms were too tight and you were too close and you were honestly a bit concerned he was about to shake apart. So you just let your forehead fall so that your face was resting against his chest and not smashing into it and just let him get through what was clearly a lot of not-fun feelings.

You understood—really you did.

You’d missed him more than anything when you were hidden away in the Resistance’s fortress, but you’d also been very distracted by the whole _‘I am the hostage in this hostage situation’_ thing. On top of that, you were generally a much more relaxed person than he was. A bit of human hijacking may not have been part of the plan, but it still made for an excellent story. And overall you were _fine_. Really.

You wanted to get a look at his eyes—just to make sure they were still the lovely shade of brown you remembered—but the room was dark, and even if it wasn’t, you were pretty sure all you’d be seeing was the thick, black material of his overcoat.

So you settled for wiggling your arms free enough so that you could get them around his torso and hug him back.

He still wasn’t saying anything. And that was okay. But you had a feeling that verbal reassurance may have been necessary at this stage. So you burrowed your nose into his collarbone and said:

“Your mom took care of me.” His grip tightened—a feat you hadn’t quite thought possible. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

Still nothing. If anything, the quivering in his limbs was getting worse.

“She brought me tea every morning.” Except for that one blue milk adventure. But you weren’t going to get into that. “And she made sure I ate. She even brought me oatmeal at one point because she heard me mentally complaining it.” You paused, taking a moment to recollect. “She was sort of an asshole actually. But the good kind of asshole.”

He snorted at that—soft a noise as it was—and you grinned. _Starting to make some progress_.

You moved to pull back a bit (just so you could finally get a proper look at him) but his arms stiffened like stone and snagged you back, tighter than before. You sighed and gave in to the iron-embrace. You could certainly let the Knight have this, at the very least. And you didn’t really have it in you to complain.

Your fingers dug into the fabric at his back and felt tender tissue—then warm wetness slowly seeping over your palms. And immediately your tolerance for extreme-cuddling dropped down to zero.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s not important.”

_And he speaks at last._

“You are _bleeding_ through your clothes.”

“I’m _fine_.”

_Oh, for the ever-loving **fuck.** _

You tried to pull back once more but he wasn’t budging.

“Look, I get that I just got back and we’re having a moment, but if you start _hemorrhaging_ on me we’re going to have a problem.” Then, because he _still_ wasn’t moving. “How exactly do you plan on keeping me around if you bleed out and _die_ in my hospital bed?”

He drew back with a snarl and you met his brown-eyed glower with your own. You’d never been more relieved to see someone glaring at you in all your life.  

“You know,” you said, almost wistful, and interrupting whatever nonsense he was about to start screeching, “you have your mother’s eyes.”

The sneer froze on his lips and for a hot second you thought he was going to _cry_.

Instead, he dropped his head to rest in the crook of your neck and you spent a moment ignoring the very bloody patch on his back to instead run your hands through that mop of dark hair you’d missed so very much.

“You got me out just in time,” you hummed, fingers catching on a snarl. “I told your mother I was pregnant and I think she was about five seconds away from adopting me into the Skywalker clan.”

He reeled back. “You’re **_what_** _?!_ ”

 _Ah._ There was the dork you knew and loved

“I know right? I don't get how she fell for it.” You tapped your chin. “Maybe if I’d given her more time to digest it… I did sort of spring it on her.”

He didn’t say a word—just continued to stare down at your abdomen in abject horror. You were half a second from tossing your hands into the air in exasperation.

“I'm _not_ **_pregnant._** We're in the middle of a _war._ How irresponsible do you people think I am?”

He scoffed and dragged you back—pulling you down so you were sprawled out across his chest. You sighed and burrowed into his neck. _You’d really, truly missed him._

You laid in silence for a few minutes more, taking the time to reacquaint yourself with all the freckles you hadn’t been able to count in _weeks_. All the different colors inked into the scar slashing across his face. The subtle way his hair curled up at the tips. The fact that he _clearly_ hadn’t been brushing it sense you’d been away. The teensy matter of the innumerable layers and shades of purple beneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks and instantly you felt _awful_.

Said eyes had slipped shut and you reached up to jab a finger into his cheek.

“Don’t think I forgot about your back.”

“Just… five minutes. Please.”

Like all those many, many months ago when you’d dragged his beaten and broken ass out of the grave only for him to try and _murder_ you out of gratitude ~~or whatever the fuck~~ , it was the p-word that did you in.

Besides. The blood coating your fingers was already tacky, and a quick, gentle probe of the mess on his back proved that the rest of the injury was equally so. If he was clotting, he probably wasn’t going to die. At least not in the next five minutes.

So you settled in closer and sighed.

“Fine. Five minutes.”

It was hardly a concession.

.

.

.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You allowed yourself a few more days of rest and relaxation before you attempted Escape #2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first the ending of Rogue One hit me, and that was sad.   
> Then Carrie Fisher happened and that was sadder. 
> 
> So yeah... Lot's of unpleasant things... And awfully enough, all that sadness became a muse, and well... here I am. 
> 
> On that note, if you saw Rogue One, you know what fucking happens at the end and why I cried like a little bitch, and THAT’S what brought back my inspiration for this story. So in all honesty, you should be fucking worried. 
> 
> Peace.

You slept for three days on and off.

A skittish assistant of name unknown dropped off a medical kit and a bottle of antiesthetic a few hours in. You managed to coax the dark knight out of your bed and personal space bubble just long enough to carefully peel away the layers upon layers of blood-soaked fabric and gawk at the garish mess that was his back. The burns were what made it so awful. Cauterized slashes tacky with goo and crusted black with blood. He hadn’t even winced when you’d trailed your fingers over the worst of it—only sat still and compliant as you cleaned and disinfected and bandaged to the best of your ability.

“What happened, Kylo?”

It was a token question. You knew. You were certain he knew that you knew. You could recognize the kiss of a saber in your sleep.

“I did what needed to be done.”

He pulled you back to the hospital bed and that had been the end of that.

.

.

.

The next time you woke, there were twin trays of cooling food waiting by the door.

The knight was tracing the bandage at the pit of your elbow, dark brow curled down low over darker eyes. You prodded him until he let you up to check on his back and he badgered you about your own miniscule injury until you peeled back the tape to show him the stupidly small incision yourself.

“See,” you said, contorting to put the thin, red, line on display. “It probably won’t even scar.”

His fingers drew crooked pathways around the still-sensitive skin.

“I don’t care about that.”

“I know.”

You picked at tepid Bantha noodle soup and Kylo practically force fed you the pile of ever unappealing vegetables that sat dejected and grey at the corner of the plate. Next came a cup of tea and a small bowl of fruit. You munched on a dried apple and watched him watch you. You stuck the bowl of overly sweet berries under his nose.

“You haven’t eaten anything yet.”

He pushed it back your way. “I’m not hungry.”

You tried again—all but shoving his chin into the goopy mess coagulating beneath your spoon. He shoved it right on back. ~~Immature bastard.~~

You were close to making X-Wing noises and pushing the silverware into his mouth like a child. “Try it. It’s awful.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

You frowned. “There are two whole trays. You can’t expect me to eat all of this.”

“Eat what you want of it.”

“Kylo—”

“ _I’m not hungry_.” He sat back against the headboard, arms crossed tight over his chest and glaring you down. “Eat.”

You thought then of the weeks of mother-henning that had followed the shoot out on Vonak, and Phasma and her cool snarl—reminding you that warriors took care of their own, albeit in ways that were still somewhat strange to you and your non-self-sacrificing ass. So you swallowed the rest of the fruit and watched Kylo’s glare soften until you were both dragged back into unconsciousness.

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.

On the third day, Miss Sansa Turpt arrived at your door and asked tentatively if you would still be needing this big hospital room all to yourself, or if you could be carted away so that other folks—who were _actually_ injured—could have a place to die in peace. Well, those weren’t her _exact_ words, but the stuttering mess she’d manage to push out was close enough. She’d spoken to the wall, gaze only occasionally flickering over to meet your own, and _never_ going anywhere near where Kylo Ren’s could catch it.

Naturally, the emo king threw a fit. Or at the least, there was much glowering and snarling and implied ‘ _how dare you_ ’s thrown around. But he didn’t get out of the bed to separate her head from her shoulders, so that was a plus.

Miss Turpt left in near tears and you piled ~~the hospital’s~~ your pillows into your arms and marched yourself right out the door.

The mystical doom knight wasn’t exactly _happy_ that you were leaving the med ward so soon after your arrival, ( _“You haven’t given it enough time. There could be something that the doctors missed—” “I **am** a doctor.”_) but once you slyly dropped the fact that you’d probably be even safer locked away in familiar territory, he was more than willing to cart you off to his quarters.

It wasn’t much different from your abode on the _Finalizer_ , but the area itself was certainly bigger—grander. All of your belongings had been placed neatly in various nooks around the rooms, and you had to say you admired his optimism in regards to your retrieval. Even _you_ had expected all of your possessions to be stuck back on the _Finalizer,_ awaiting an owner who had vanished for heavens knew how long.

Naturally, the décor was still entirely black, and that creepy melted mask still had its own cavernous room and pedestal, but otherwise you quite liked it. There was a lovely black leather couch that was so wonderfully plush and classy that you claimed it immediately by smothering it with one of your soft blue blankets and all of pillows that you’d swiped from the medbay. If your emo Barbie minded the splash of brightness, he didn’t voice it. 

The following four days passed in what could be considered a nearly identical fashion. The pair of you fell out of bed at the sound of metal trays sliding in from under the door. You ate while Kylo glowered down his nose at you, making certain you stuffed your gut far beyond carrying capacity. After the first day, he began picking at your leavings—minuscule mouthfuls of food that wouldn’t satisfy the smallest of Loth-Cats. You checked his back, he checked your dumb ass scratch, and you climbed back under your covers to dream, read, chat, screw, crochet, or whatever else struck your fancy. It was like a very peculiar vacation.   

Despite the respite, the shadows under Kylo’s eyes grew darker and his brow heavier. He was—it was like he was sick. Or something equivalent. But… a spiritual sickness. If that made sense. You weren’t sure you believed in such things, but, well, when it was staring you right down the nose, it was hard to deny. But all the while that he was acting so out of it and distraught, he was all busy worrying that _you_ were ill. Which was ridiculous. Because you were the doctor in this situation and other than an occasional itch in the pit of your elbow, you were _fine_. Really. It was like the ‘shot five times’ situation all over again but so much worse. There were no faulty crutches or intruding nurses this time around to draw the emo Knight’s ire—only legitimately innocent grunt workers and stormtroopers who ventured too close to your abode for Kylo’s liking. It was like some stupidly aggressive animal, growling and stamping arounds its nest and snapping at anything that came near. Or, y’know, _eviscerating_ , in this instance.

Anyways, back to the topic of your semi-forced sabbatical.

Because you’d been living in state of veritable solitude for a solid seven days, you weren’t exactly privy to all the current goings-on of the First Order or its ragtag opponent.

You stepped out of your room on day eight and into the good General Hux, who looked smug as ever, if not a bit irate. ~~You could hardly blame him. Your return was supposed to lower the death toll currently decimating the ship. Instead, the body count remained just as high and the bucket just as angry.~~ You asked him what had become of D’Qar and the grungy base that had been your home for a whopping three weeks. Hux had smirked and taken your arm, leading you to a new but startlingly familiar comm room. He gestured to the large window spanning the entirety of the Northern wall and you stared out into a field of stars and not much else.

Apparently D’Qar was gone.

Poof.

No longer in existence.

You sort of wished you could have seen it go. Apparently the process of internal core implosion was a sight to behold. Hux casually dropped the fact that the decimation had been caught on multiple cameras, and as a well-meaning employee of the First Order, it was your right to access them.

Kylo had found you not soon after. You weren’t particularly surprised or disappointed that he’d managed to track you down so quickly. As of late, it was like there was some of mystical cable keeping the two of you forever connected at the waist. The fact that you’d managed to escape at all was satisfying enough.

The dark knight wrapped a secure arm around your shoulders and sent Hux a truly scathing glare through his black-plated eyes as he turned to escort you back to the room.

.

.

.

You allowed yourself a few more days of rest and relaxation before you attempted Escape #2.

You got as far as the adjacent hallway before a gloved hand clasped onto your wrist and spun you back against a firm chest.

“Where are you going?”

You shrugged. “Nowhere in particular.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left,” he snapped, already busy dragging you back to your ebony prison.

“I’m _bored_.”

“I can fix that.”

To say you were disappointed when he cocooned you in the silk-soft sheets of your bed and shoved a book into your hands was an understatement to end all understatements. Even without your cerebral cortex putting out endless cries of something along the lines of ‘you are blue-balling me so hard right now,’ you were sure your face was getting the message across clear enough. You felt his lips twist upwards in wry amusement when he leaned in to press a quick peck to your forehead and you sort of wanted to smack him.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

He did, in fact, make it up to you later that evening by smuggling you a plate of fancy cakes in flavors you couldn’t hope to pronounce even if your tongue had been fully trained in frilly food talk, and they were 100% to- _die_ -for.

There was also a great deal of a sex involved.

But the fluffy confectionaries were an anomaly and therefore stayed on your mind long after the dark menace was conked out and snuffling sleepily against the crook of your neck.

You fingered the cracked kyber crystal hanging in the cleft of your throat. The gauze chain had long faded from bone white to an ugly sort of grey-yellow and some of the woven fabric had started to unravel into disrepair at the edges. It had been through a lot to be fair. But at the same time you were reluctant to replace the gaudy braid. You tucked it back into your shirt where its soft blue glow was muted—a problem for another day.

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.

.

Escape #7 found you as far as the lower decks. A new record.

“You can’t keep me locked up forever.” You stared mournfully up at the familiar ceiling tiles. Prickly as you were, even _you_ needed some sort of basic human interaction every now and again to keep from withering away like a neglected house plant.

The doors slid shut behind you with a firm _thud_. Kylo’s helmet hissed at it slipped off his head and landed in its customary place on the rack by the door.

“You have me.”

 “Can you blame a girl for wanting some variety?”

His mouth twisted in irritation and you flopped dramatically onto your couch. He moved to stand over you, brow pulled down low.

“You shouldn’t need anyone else.”

“ _Please_ tell me you realize how freakish that sounds.” He didn’t say anything to that so you added, “You can’t be my everything, just like I can’t be yours. I may not know a lot about this kind of thing, but even _I_ understand that’s not how a healthy relationship works.”

He sat down beside you with a heavy sigh, head buried in his hands. You moved to rest your head against his thigh and one of those hands immediately came down to bury itself in your hair. The dark terror took a moment to collect his thoughts before unclenching and settling back into the cushions.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he began, a bit terse, “but you have to understand. I’m still—I just got you back. It’s hard leaving you here at all. Knowing you could be wandering around where I couldn’t get to you if you needed me.”

“I’ve been back for almost two weeks,” you tried.

“You were gone for longer,” he snapped.

You twisted around so you could prop yourself up onto your elbows, dislodging his hand in the process.

“You do know that can take care of myself, right?” It came out a lot softer than you’d intended—more a reassurance than a question.

His fingers found their way back into your hair. “I do.”

“And you also realize we are on a First Order ship—a massive, absolutely _terrifying_ ship that doubles as one of the most powerful weapons in the galaxy. Not some weird planet, or anything else. And there’s really nothing on this thing that can hurt me.”

A fairly long pause at that. Then, “I know.”

“So there’s no reason that I can’t go exploring on my own,” you finished. It really was a very rational argument.

“…I suppose not.”

Another pause.

“Tomorrow—You can do what you want tomorrow. Just let me have one more day.”

Excellent. Those terms you good deal with.

You flopped back down and burrowed into his lap. Nothing on this floating war machine was going to do you harm. The only possibility you could concoct would be if you did something ridiculously stupid and wound up—oh, I don’t know, let’s say… tripping over a stray box and losing your head on the edge of particularly sharp door or something like that.  

Instantly, his eyes shot wide open and you felt tension lance through his muscles like hot lightening.

“ _Oh for fuck’s sake_ —I’m not going to _decapitate_ myself.”

Blunt nails scraped along your scalp as he dragged his fingers through your hair. It only took a handful of seconds for most of that stiffness to seep out of him.

Then, ~~because, _yes_ , he was apparently that obnoxious~~, “I’ll send Jaina or Olin to watch over you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

_For the love of—_

You ground the palms of your hands into your eyes. _Fine. Whatever_. If having a babysitter would placate him and his overly hormonal anxiety, then you’d tolerate it. Besides, you needed to thank Olin for his timely rescue, and subsequently apologize for trying to shoot him in the face.

.

.

.

 ~~Pre-Verified~~ Escape #8 was going great until you saw Eve approaching in the distance and promptly decided your best course of action was to hide in the ceiling.

Olin had watched, unamused, as you scaled the wall and hauled your ass up into the rafters.

Eve has passed by beneath you, uncaring, and even though the threat had henceforth been neutralized, you decided that you rather liked your place up high. So you made yourself comfortable on your metal perch and took a moment to watch the world go by.

Naturally, ~~because you have that same shit luck as all the rest of the people who voluntarily associate with the Skywalker clan,~~ this was how Kylo Ren found you.

The Force that gripped you was overly strong, and while you floated gently downwards and were placed neatly on the floor rather than tossed on your rear, the muscles in your arms and sides still sang in discomfort at the pressure.

“What were you doing up there?!”

You rubbed at your biceps, trying to ease the residual ache. “I was _hiding_. Besides, you’ve found me in the ceiling plenty of times before. It’s not like—”

But he’d stopped listening, instead turning on his subordinate like a storm.

“ _You’re supposed to be watching over her._ ”

Olin looked frazzled at the reprimand, and… incredibly unsettled. Afraid even. _Afraid?_ **_Was_** _he afraid_? The Knight held his ground, but the twitch in his shoulders and overly stiff posture seemed to show that it was more out of deference than defiance.

“Of course, sir.”

The metallic grind of Kylo’s snarl even set _you_ on edge. He sneered down at his subordinate—looking for more intimidating than the guy who cuddled endlessly in his sleep and force fed you bantha noodle soup had any right to be.

“ _You will not let it happen again, do you understand me?_ ”

“O-Of course, sir.”

Then he was grabbing your arm and dragging you back to the room that was as much as cell as any.

.

.

.

You planned to give him an hour to cool down. And then you would attack.

That’s how these things worked, or at least, this was how books and plays _led_ you to believe these things worked. You would sit him down, get him all nice and cozy, and then launch a verbal war that would no doubt leave the pair of you in some sort of emotional ruin. The campaign would be followed by a few days of terse silence, a tearful reunion, and a bought of angry/relieved makeup sex. He would bow to your better logic and admit the error of his possessive, man-handling, ways, and the world would make sense again. You had it all planned out.

So of course, Kylo being Kylo, had to go and throw the proverbial wrench right into your battle plans.

“I’m leaving for Lothal. Resistance troops were spotted taking refuge there, and I’ve been ordered to wipe them out.”

 _No, no, no, **no**_. Not now. Not when you’d finally mustered up the better points of your defense.

So you sidestepped your way in front of the door and planted yourself like a tree.

“Good luck with that. I hope you get to kill as many people as you want. But we need to talk first.”

“We talk.”

“About something _specific_ ,” you pressed. “About…” You paused. His helmet was still in place. “…are you alright?”

“Me?” he spit, turning on you far quicker than you’d expected. “You were a _prisoner of war_ for _three weeks_ and you’re asking _me_ —”

“And I’m fine,” you snapped. “I’m fine now, I was fine during— _I’ve always been_ **fine**. But _you?_ You come back and you’re practically torn to shreds. You stalk around like everyone around us is ready to throw me back to your mother the second you turn you back!”

“Is it so wrong that I was _afraid?_ ” he snarled, low. “Is it so _wrong_ that I _care_ what happens to you?”

“This is beyond that. I get being afraid—I do,” you pressed. _Golden eyes and hatred and all the things that made you shift in discomfort_. “I’m afraid for you _now_. There’s something wrong.”

“There is _nothing_ wrong with me.”

“Fine then. Let me out. Let me do what I always do. If you’re so _fine_ don’t keep me _locked away_.”

He hesitated. You could practically hear his teeth grinding. “It’s not safe.”

“ _Right._ Of course not.” You stepped forward, biting down your temper. “I love you, you know that.”

The mask glared down at you. He nodded.

“Then trust me to take care of myself.”

For a moment you thought you’d won. He was wilting under your glower. Maybe he could see—see what you’d been seeing for a while now. See the dark and the anger and the yellow—

You didn’t realize you’d been holding his hand until it was gone. Gone with the rest of the him—out the door and away. The metal panels slammed shut behind him. You stared at the threshold for a moment in shock. You counted slow, all the way to fifteen, and then reached forward to try the latch. Locked. Of course.

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.

.

You waited.

You waited until you knew he’d be long gone—shot out into the stars and on his way to slaughter all those damned rebels.

It took more than a bit of finagling, but you managed to slip out of the room after an hour or so of actively trying to kill the alarm systems. Even then, when the doors final slid open there was still a rather disconcerting _beep_ and a teeny flashing light that was certainly working against you. Perhaps some people would have turned tail and hid back in the bowels of his ebony fortress. But you were _you,_ and it would take a lot more than four walls, an angry lampshade, and a locked door to keep you trapped.

In under four minutes, the communicator in your pocket was bleeping away.

You picked it up, because—what the hey, right?

“Where are you going?” _Ah, that stupidly angry bucket._ Did he really think so little of you? That you would just sit there in time out like some sort of unruly toddler?

“Somewhere else.”

“ _Where are you_ —”

“ _It’s none of your_ —” you bit down on your lip and sighed, digging your knuckles into your temples. You tossed the communicator into an alcove. It hit the ground with a strange sounding crunch and you carried on down the hall. _There had been an elevator somewhere…_  

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.

.

The heels of your boots pressed sharp beats into the echoing silence of the hall. It was empty here, almost dismally so. But to be fair, you’d been counting on that. The belly of the ship—the house of the dying and all the rest of the scum the First Order deemed worthy of a prison cell. Each door you passed was open, each room empty and clean. You’d known for a while that the First Order had little use for captives. Well, _living_ ones at least. Torture was quick and vicious, and when there was a human lie detector/mind reader on board, well, there was no need to bother holding on to those extra mouths.

You reached the end of the hallway and turned. The final door was sealed tight—a well-worn tablet slotted into the chart rack and etched with a number 3. You slipped it free and coaxed the ancient piece of hardware to life.

A familiar face popped up onto the screen.

You flicked through the files—each recorded ‘visit,’ each bought of ‘therapy.’

You stood on your tiptoes to peak in the tiny one-way window. It was like looking in on a beaten puppy—all alone and shivering in the ugliest and coldest cage in the pound. A puppy missing a front paw. And probably a lot more.

The door slid open and you paused just outside the threshold.

The walls were slippery with grey grime and the occasional smattering of long-dried blood. One of the metal panels was dented—a nice, head-sized gash in the dirt. The floor was oddly clean—practically shining in comparison to the rest of the room. Freshly scrubbed. A metal gurney sat in the center, its leather straps well used and wearing thin around the edges.

The sole occupant was curled up in the corner, face pressed into the knees of a once white jump suit.

 “You’re FN-2187.”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but you were sure that his torturers had probably taught him that rhetorical inquiries were equally as important. You knew one of them—a kindly little thing named Elle. Sweet to the personnel, fierce in the cell. Talked with absolutely no inflection.

“Yes.”

You canted your head. “You called yourself Finn. The last time we saw each other.” _And he’d been very adamant about it if you recalled._

“I’m that too.”

More confused head tilting. Stormtroopers didn’t have names, as far as you were aware. Not the ones like him. “You can’t be both.”

His forehead fell to rest against the dented panel in the wall. “I know.”

“So which are you?” The gash on his forehead oozed sluggishly—the red stark and overly bright against his dark skin. “Right now, anyways.”

“I don’t want to be either.”

Huh. A broken man. Always fun to play with. _Except Kylo was…_ No. He wasn’t broken. Not yet. You weren’t going to let that happen.

You shifted back and forth on your toes for a moment before stepping in and perching yourself at the foot of the torture-chair. You squiggled yourself around until you found a comfortable cranny and pulled out your tablet.

“What—What are you _doing_?”

“Hiding,” you said. “Just for a little bit.”

“You can’t be in here!”

“Oh relax,” you huffed, flicking through the newest maintenance updates, dining menus, things like that. The heading of one page was all in yellow. You closed the tab and returned to the reports Hux had sent out. “This can count as part of your torture if you’re so adamant. I know I’m not exactly pleasant to be around.”

He shut his mouth after that and stayed huddled in his corner.

.

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.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time that day, all your brain could manage to churn out was 'oh.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. School is insane, and let me reach out to any future science majors and say: be-fucking-ware. 
> 
> Anywho. Enjoy this episode of death and doom.   
> We're not reaching the END end, but the final arc is well underway, y'all. Fasten your seatbelts and please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle throughout the entirety of the ride. Thank you.

Finn was boring.

He never moved, he never spoke, and he certainly never played off any of your attempts to start some sort of witty back-and-forth.  

You didn’t like him much, but you found yourself returning to that cell the next day and the one after. It was quiet there. No Kylo, no Hux, no fucking _Eve_ —only you, your thoughts, and the beaten down ex-trooper curled up in the corner. On day number three, he lifted his head from where it was buried in his arms and asked, whisper quiet—

“You said you were hiding—why are you hiding?”

You hesitated long enough that you were certain he’d take whatever you’d say for a lie, so you decided to surmount his expectations and go for the truth.

“Because I’m incapable of facing my problems like a functioning adult, let alone fixing them.” You flicked to a separate spread sheet on your tablet and continued reading. After a moment you glanced back up. _He_ got to ask a question, it was only fair you were allowed one in return. _And you were so curious_. “Why’d they take your hand?”

“The lightsaber wasn’t mine…” he mumbled, almost like he was repeating off a well-beaten script. “I didn’t have any right to touch it, so…”

 _Ah._ You’d had a feeling it was something like that.

You looked back down at your tablet and your companion slid back into semi-petrified silence.

And that was the end of that conversation.

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.

.

“Doctor.”

You nodded Hux’s way more or less and continued dragging the edge of your sleeve over his cat’s toes. Millicent flicked her tail irritably and looked very much like she wanted to swat at the fabric, but wasn’t giving in. You frowned. You just wanted to _play_ —

“I thought you’d like to know that Ren is returning from Lothal earlier than anticipated.”

Your hands stilled and Millicent took the chance to work her tiny claws into your wrists.

“Today?”

“About a week.”

“Oh.” You went back to swiping your fingers over her paws. “Alright then.”

 _Silence._ You waited patiently, because there had to be _some_ trace of snark in there somewhere just waiting to pop on out—

“Having some relationship troubles are we, doctor?”

 _And there it was._ Though… to be honest, it was much less smug than you’d expected. You looked up, allowing Millicent to use the reprieve to gnaw on your thumb, and took in the General standing before you. There was still that infuriating air of bravado about him, but you doubted that was _ever_ going to away, so you focused on the rest. Head canted a bit to the right, blue eyes narrowed just so. He looked curious, and in his own special sort of douchey way, a bit concerned _._ And _imagine that_. **_Hux_**. Even the slightest bit perturbed over your emotional wellbeing. You’d clearly slipped into another dimension where Kylo was a blond bombshell and the order of the universe didn’t balance so precariously on the shoulders of the goddamn Skywalkers.

“There is a therapist on board available to all First Order staff, should you require her services.”

You spent a solid ten seconds mulling over the image of you and Kylo seated on some ugly plaid couch across from some lady in an even uglier cardigan and glasses asking questions like _‘and how does that make you feel_ ’ and thought **_no thank you_** _._ You shoved that monstrosity to the very back of your skull. Besides. The last therapist you’d encountered had wound up displaying a rather notable predilection for human flesh. Nice fellow—well spoken, impeccable manners, but poor dietary decisions and a bit too homicidal for your tastes. Didn’t leave you with the best impression of shrinks.

A pause. Hux folded his arms back beneath the tails of his stiff black coat.

“You told me you would tread carefully. Are you?”

You frowned. Millicent pounced on your sleeve, slipping over her furry feet and tumbling across your arms. “Does Snoke know about all this?” **_All this_** being his pupil’s steady descent into psychosis.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And you didn’t answer mine.”

The ginger sniffed—haughty, and clearly back to his usual indignant self and done giving any sort of rat’s ass about you and your situation. “The Supreme Leader has been made aware of the situation.”

“ _And_.”

“And?”

“What do you mean _and_?” you frowned. “What’s he going to do about it?”

He hesitated. “Nothing that I’ve been made privy to.”

Oh.

And then, **_oh._**

“You’re free to inquire further into the matter yourself.”

The polite way of saying _haha, like there’s any way Snoke would tell your dumbass what he’s planning either._

With that, Hux leaned forward to extract ~~your~~ his cat from the fabric of your shirt. “And I understand that you are _capable_ of climbing through the vents and into my quarters, but please refrain from doing so in the future.”

“Of course.”

Millicent settled into his arms and he swiveled around on his heels to return the feline to her cozy bed in his chambers.

“Oh, and doctor?” He adjusted his passenger so she was nestled comfortably across his shoulder. “Think about what I said—about the therapist.”

“I will, sir.”

_No. You absolutely would not._

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.

.

“—So long story short, he’s been getting stranger and stranger since I’ve been back—actually, for a while now. Even before the whole kidnapping thing. And I’m worried, but I don’t exactly know what to _do_ , you know?”

“…”

“I mean, this is some Force thing, or something. I still don’t have any clue how any of that stuff works. I probably should at this point, but—anyways. Do you see the problem?”

“It doesn’t sound… healthy.”

“I know, right?” you griped. “That’s what I’m saying. I love him, I do.” _More than anything._ Sappy as it sounded. “But there’s something _wrong_ with him and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Finn shifted uncomfortably—dingy white sleeves of his prison jumpsuit tucked under his knees. “I—please don’t get mad—but… it seems like there was _always_ something wrong with him, I think. I mean,” he spluttered, “he _kills_ people. _A lot_.”

“No, no. You’re right,” you frowned, tapping your nails against the blank page on your tablet. “I forget about that sometimes.” You typed out a few quick notes. You lifted a finger to continue your tapping. _The Force._ Something to do with the Force maybe. “You were friends with that other Jedi—the girl. Right?”

“Rey,” he filled in. And for a moment you swore there was a bit of spark in him—some trace of life and charisma long buried beneath weeks of torture and brutality.  “She’s my friend.”

“Yes, I know.” You remembered her—freckled face littered with tiny crisscrossing scars and brown hair pulled back in one of the most incredibly stupid tri-bun contraptions you’d ever bore witness to. She’d radiated a sort of self-assurance and morality that made you second-guess comparing anything about her to your beloved dark knight. Surely she was not a good subject for drawing correlations. So you thought of the other Jedi—Kylo’s _uncle_ of all people. Surely that made him a better case study. “What about Luke Skywalker? Do you know him?”

That previously noted flicker of life faded from those dark eyes and Finn went back to curling in on himself as much as physically possible.

“I-I knew him,” he mumbled into his collar. “Not well—not like Rey does. But he was a good man.”

You paused, fingers stilling over the screen. “… _was_ a good man?”

More shaking, more burrowing—like he was trying to seep into the wall and disappear. His one good hand came up to clutch at his hair. The other—a stump of a limb—tucked itself so tightly against his chest you could hardly make out where the arm ended and the rest of him began.

You remembered the burns—the cauterized paths of crimson that had littered Kylo’s back upon his return from your rescue mission. You remembered how you knew, how you could recognize the kiss of a saber in your sleep, but hadn’t even thought to wonder what had happened to the one doing the slashing. You remembered the blood and the stony silence and the steadfast assurance:

_“I did what needed to be done.”_

For the second time that day, all your brain could manage to churn out was _oh_.

.

.

.

It was a bad idea.

You _knew_ it was a bad idea. Hux knew. Even the poor man in charge of archiving security footage seemed to know.

It wasn’t that you were particularly squeamish about avunculicide or any of the other seemingly endless brands of homicide out there. By definition _you_ _too_ were a murderous psychopath—witness to many crimes and perpetrator of an equally outrageous number. But something was… different about this. There was an unpleasant sort of sourness in your gut that stayed with you throughout the entirety of the march to Hux’s post and long after.

“Luke Skywalker is dead.”

The general’s eyes flicked at you briefly from where he stood at the helm of ~~Death Star 3~~ the _Terminus._

“Of course he is.”

“Kylo killed him.”

“Of course.” He turned to give you his full attention now with the look of a long-suffering parent. “Did you expect anything otherwise?”

“I want to see,” you said. “I know every one of the X-Wings and scout ships have security cameras. There has to be something.”

“There is.” Hux cocked his head at you, clearly not convinced. “And you _want_ to see it?”

“We’ve been hunting him for over a year now,” you argued. “Of course I want to see how he bit the dust.”

And that was how you found yourself standing beside the poor, shaky, librarian mentioned only just prior—peering over his shoulder at the too bright footage whirring away on the screen before you.

The sound quality was terrible. There was far too much shooting and blasting and general ruckus to make out much more than the occasional screech of incoming fighters. But the image was sharp—only a bit shaky every now and again.

Emerald met crimson with an explosion of sparks. While the entire area was overrun by people fighting and dying and running around like chickens without heads, Resistance and First Order troops alike still seemed to understand well enough to allow the dueling pair a rather _large_ bubble of space. Another slash, another parry. You fancied that even with the perpetual stream of chaos flooding your ears, you could still hear the plasma blades screeching. Kylo’s helmet was missing, you noted—his face lit with green and red. Then, in the distance, you could see a tiny speck of a ship jetting off into the sky. Kylo faltered, head angled to the escaping vessel, and Luke attacked. Kylo’s block was far too low, far too weak compared to the force pressing in. He pivoted to protect his chest and the green saber came down in a wide arch across his back. The dark Knight managed to deter the second stab just enough to keep his spine intact and stumbled forward and away—sliding through the dirt and collapsing onto his hands and knees. His lightsaber spluttered and retracted and Luke retrieved it from the ground, his own saber still sharp and cool and very much alive. You hadn’t realized how tightly you were clenching your fists into the fabric of your cloak until you could feel your nails tearing through the skin of your palms.

There was talking now. You couldn’t hear them, but there was no movement—or at the very least, there was no combat. Kylo was still half-sprawled in the mud and he was clearly trying very hard to haul himself back to his feet. One hand slipped beneath the dark wool pooled loose and torn around his hips. It looked like he was holding himself together.

Luke murmured something that had the Knight lurching forward, practically frothing at the mouth. Skywalker stepped backwards gracefully, slipping Kylo’s saber into the loop at his belt. The glass-sharp tip of his emerald saber rested precariously before Kylo’s chin and you could feel your nails biting into your skin yet again.

And then a scream—so loud and strong that even you could make it out. And Luke was turning, searching, his lips parted in response. And Kylo propelled himself forward, hand withdrawing from the depths of his cloak, fingers coated in blood, and holding—

Luke choked, arms stiff at his sides and face frozen in shock. Kylo twisted the hilt, vicious, and the ice-blue saber shot up further through Skywalker’s chest. There were no words—at least, nothing verbal, none that required the movement of lips or the expulsion of sound.

And then Luke Skywalker was falling. Kylo stood over him once he hit the ground, like an avenging phantom. Still, nothing said. No sounds, no pleas, no snarky quips about triumph or power. Finally he leaned over, retrieved his saber, and slid it into its sheath. The Jedi lay on the ground, panting and twitching but not snarling, not fighting and swearing and crying. Just… _dying_. Kylo turned back to him once his saber was snapped into place and held his new weapon aloft. The sleek blue blade looked wrong in his hands, ill-fitting. You didn’t like it.

The saber fell downward in a smooth arch—swift and purposeful.

And it was over.

The video cut out with a soft hum and softer fade to white.

You blinked, slow, and glanced at the jittery man seated beside you.

“Is that it?”

“Is… there something else you wanted to see?” he asked, clearly nervous.

“There’s another one—another Jedi. A girl,” I said. “Is she in here anywhere?”

“I…” He flicked through his notes, eyes roving over the screen at a mile a minute. “There may have been, but there were no other lightsabers used in the battle. So I would assume—”

No—no, there wouldn’t be. The saber she’d held as her own up until this point had been the one to cut down her master. The Resistance hadn’t counted on that trick with Finn souring so quickly. They hadn’t thought he’d be caught—that there was even a _chance_ that things could go so wrong—

You blinked once more, staring pensively at the blank screen.

You weren’t _sad_ that Luke Skywalker was dead. He was your enemy, after all. As trite as that sounded. He would have killed Kylo if the emo king hadn’t struck him down first. But it was… There was something about the _method_ of it all that left a rotten taste on the back of your tongue.

“Do you know how many of them escaped?” you asked. “The Resistance?”

“A few ships were spotted, but otherwise from what I understand, we’re not entirely sure.”

You nodded and left.

.

.

.

You had a feeling—a rather unpleasant feeling.

Like the swooping in your stomach just as a ship was taking off. Or the heaviness of artificial gravity melting into reality—where the pressure on your shoulders was just too bizarre to be anything natural.

Kylo was coming back today. You sat and mused for a moment if it could really be him—the reason you were so undeniably anxious. But no. Things weren’t that far gone. You stared at the black walls and thought of his face—his thick black hair that you loved to muse and the thirty-two freckles that you loved to count—and that icky awareness of imminent collapse didn’t come. _Thank the fucking gods._

But you thought of Luke Skywalker and the sensation of falling returned.

And then, you thought, _you knew what it was._

It took a bit of searching, but you found it. That familiar cylinder of metal—jagged, heavy, and perpetually warm beneath your fingers. You’d hoped your bout of exploration would be in vain, but… well. _Here it was_. **_Kylo’s saber_** —not some sleek monstrosity that was too blue and too cold. And it was _here_. In your quarters. And not with him.

The unpleasant, constricting feeling in your gut jumped from a 3 to 6 out of 10 and you passed the lightsaber back and forth between your palms.

And all of a sudden you were _mad_.

It had been so long since you’d worked yourself into a good rage. You wanted to light the blade in your hands and tear into the room. You wanted to find the stupid bit of smooth platinum that had _replaced_ this and hack it into bits.

What was so good about that other lightsaber anyways? It was shiny enough, sure. But Kylo’s saber _was_ him. It was ragged and worn at the edges, but strong and very fucking terrifying when it wanted to be. Sure, the vents were a little dinged and the blade crackled rather than hummed, but it was _his_. It was as much a part of him as his stupid bucket at this point, probably even more so. And he was just… _throwing it away._

~~Well, that wasn’t entirely fair to say. You hadn’t exactly found it in the _garbage_. But the sentiment (or you supposed lack thereof in this instance) was there. ~~

A stormtrooper appeared in your doorway an hour or so later, politely informing you that _your presence was requested in the main War Room_ and _would you be so kind as to follow him, thank you._ So you tossed your cloak over your shoulders and slipped the saber into your belt before falling into step beside him.

.

.

.

“We’ve received word that the female Jedi was spotted on Lothal alongside the previously reported Resistance platoon, inciting dissent amongst the natives there.”

Your eyes flickered over to Hux as the general shifted in his seat. He always looked so _bored_. You weren’t quite sure how. Certainly _you_ found these meetings to be incredibly dull a majority of the time, but not _always_. Let alone all of _life_ as well. It was quite a feat.

“And she escaped the Knights of Ren I assume,” the ginger drawled. “Otherwise we’d be hearing tell of her demise.”

Lieutenant Mitaka nodded. “A small squadron was sent out to track her, but we believe she’s left the planet, if not the system.”

“What sort of ‘dissent’ is she cultivating?” Hux frowned. “Is it anything we need to concern ourselves with?”

“No, sir.”

Hux hummed, still looking entirely uninterested in all of this. “And what of Lord Ren, Lieutenant?”

Mitaka twitched and you glanced his way, curious.

“His team should be returning shortly. There was… a large death toll. On both sides.”

“Did any of the Knights fall?” you cut in, a bit too loud. _Not Jaina. Not Olin. Not Jaina. Not Olin._

A few heads tilted down in clear disapproval but Mitaka nodded your way respectfully. “One, ma’am. A man named Gaeriel.”

You tried not to sigh out your relief, but you were pretty certain you made a fairly squeaky noise all the same.

“We need to draw her out,” Phasma spoke up, short. “We’ll never catch up just hopping around after her from system to system. The Millennium Falcon is too fast to match pace with and too small to properly track.” She folded her metal-clad arms atop the table. “I believe we should bring out the ex-stormtrooper once more.”

“Why would she fall for that again?” another Captain frowned. “While I agree the Resistance may not host the brightest of minds, this is a _Jedi_. She’ll see the trap for what it is.”

“She has nothing left to lose,” Hux mused. “Her master is dead. Her base destroyed. She’s hardly completed her training. FN-2187 may be all she has left in the world.” The General reclined in his chair, fingers coming up to lace themselves lazily across his chest. “She may not be stupid, but she’s still driven by sentiment. If we play our cards properly, she’ll come.”

You thought of the lonely and broken man sequestered away in what was essentially the _Terminus’s_ dingy basement. For a moment you didn’t see the appeal. But then your mind replaced that haggard, kind, face with a more familiar, angsty one and you knew. Rey would come. Because if it was Kylo dangling before you like a carrot on a stick—broken as he was—you’d come running too.

.

.

.

You were almost hopeful about the gothic pre-madonna’s arrival—which was certainly saying something, seeing as you have always been a fairly staunch pessimist.

Kylo’s lightsaber bumped uncomfortably against your hipbone every time you shifted, but the weight of it was still somewhat comforting—at least enough to outweigh the fantastic bruise that was certainly spreading its way across your pelvic bone.

You had been waiting for hardly a full fifteen minutes when the Knight’s massive Epsilon-something-or-other descended like a cloud of black smoke into the hanger, and you shifted back and forth on your toes from where you stood on the overhang—debating if waving ‘hello’ was worth the effort of raising your arm.

He hadn’t been gone for long. Hardly more than a week. _Certainly that was not enough time to warrant the displacement of your so neatly styled cloak—_

But alas, he’d stormed out on a rather sour note, and you were not above setting aside pettiness to at least get yourself set back on the road to ‘alright,’ so you ended up waving rather enthusiastically—fashion be damned.

Kylo arrived at your platform with startling speed, and you stared him down for a moment, debating if you were still irritated enough about him locking you in your room like an unruly toddler to warrant an immediate, verbal, attack on his person. Then you shifted and the saber clinking at your waist was another reminder of just how really _not okay_ things were turning out to be.

Before you could open your mouth and demand to know just what _exactly_ he thought he was doing, leaving his crimson glow stick of doom lying around where you could find it and accidentally gore yourself through the head, his arms were around you and your face was pressed into a familiar wall of cedar and ash. You snuffled, unsure exactly how you ought to respond, and his arms wound tighter.

_“I’m sorry.”_

Oh. Good. He ought to be. And— _You hadn’t been expecting that._

You frowned into the thick wool of his collar. “You’re apologizing.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again—voice gnarled and cracking through his mask, but sincere. “You were right. I treated you… poorly.”

“ _You’re_ **apologizing**.”

He drew back, and you were certain his brow was all twisted up beneath his mask. “I am.” Then, that familiar irritation, “Don’t you want me to?”

_Of course you did. You were just…_

“I was expecting to have to drag it out of you—fighting tooth and nail, and all that.”

“I felt… odd,” he said, almost pensive. “Not entirely myself.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

“I spoke with the Supreme Leader,” he continued and you stiffened. “And he agreed that it was best to not let… whatever that had been, consume me entirely. Everything is fine— _I’ve made it_ fine.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good,” you tried. But something felt… not right. “Did you talk about anything else?”

“No.”

You paused, the hand that you had moved to rest on his shoulders came back down to your waist. Carefully, you pulled his saber free and held it out to him.

“You forgot this.”

He stared down at it, seemingly unconcerned that you were carting around his most prized possession. “I didn’t forget it. I don’t need it anymore.”

“You don’t… need it.”

His fingers flexed at your hip and his head fell back, almost as if he was staring into the heavens.  

“Darth Vader’s saber _chose_ me. _Anakin Skywalker_ ,” he breathed, reverent. “When it came to his son or me, it chose _me_. And I will wield it in his honor.” He paused, chin falling forward once more, and you could tell his eyes were tracing your features—narrowed into a tight glare. “You don’t approve.”

You held the lightsaber in your fists defensively. “I like this one.”

A gloved hand moved upwards to weave into your hair. “Keep it then. But I have no more use for it.” His head fell forward to rest on your shoulder and you could feel the cool metal of his helmet pressing into your cheek. “Do we have to argue?” His other hand tightened in the fabric around by your lower back. “ _I’ve missed you_.”

You pressed your face into his chest with a sigh.

“And you’re sure you’re alright?”

“Of course I am.”

.

.

.

He wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t eating. There was endless pacing and mumbling and you were half-tempted to drag him to the infirmary just so you could get a proper blood pressure on him.

When asked, Kylo would turn up his nose like some well-bred socialite and storm off to mope in his cavernous room—the one with the melted mask situated so neatly in the center. You swore you could hear him speaking to it on occasion, and if that wasn’t worrying, you weren’t sure what else qualified.

But he was _kind_ to you again.

The demon Barbie was uppity and cold and his tongue was as sharp as ever, but he’d _always_ been a sassy motherfucker with a predilection for the dramatic, so you weren’t exactly sure what to make of the current goings on.  

There was no hostage-holding, no disemboweling of the troopers who ambled within fifty feet of your quarters, no snarling at Olin for taking you on walks through the corridors. You would say things were back to normal.

But they—they just _weren’t._

The ever-expanding palette of purples beneath his eyes scared you. You were not unfamiliar with the signs of fatigue. ~~Hello _. Doctor_~~. And he took shitty care of himself _normally_. That certainly was not helping his current bout of fasting. Often he’d stare off into nothing—sometimes for hours at a time. And _other_ staring was becoming an issue as well. You were more than acclimated to some of his more smoldering smirks and not-so-subtle attempts at seduction (read—blatant eye-fucking), but those looks as of late seemed a bit more… _unhinged_ than usual. Less hot and more loco. Which was certainly concerning.

Something was going to snap. You could feel it. It was too calm—as if you’d accidentally traipsed into the eye of the storm.

You were troubled enough that you ventured out to visit General Hux on more than one occasion. While twirling Millicent’s thin tail around your fingers, you casually dropped that fact that Kylo seemed a bit more unstable that usual at the moment, and _would you watch out for him please and thank you._

Each day you waited for the news. _Hallway B2 had been utterly destroyed in one of King Emo’s fits, and now there was a gaping hole in the side of the ship that led straight out into the gaping void of space. A whole platoon of stormtroopers had been wiped out after one new recruit spilled a cup of pink yogurt over the dark terror’s equally dark and terrifying boots._ Something along those lines.

Instead, it came in the form of a red alert—a medical code that sent the entirety of the crew into chaos. You had been meandering about, considering if you ought to visit Finn. You hadn’t been down to the dungeons since Kylo’s return. Certainly the ex-stormtrooper-cum-rebel-cum-puppy must be missing you and your phenomenal company.

The flashing lights and sirens seemed a tad sensationalist, but you followed the swell of people nonetheless, curious.

Phasma found you amidst the chaos and general mob-rule and pulled you aside.

“You need to get somewhere secure.”

You cocked your head and allowed her to push you along. “What’s going on?”

“Kylo Ren.”

“Ah.”

Once you had been herded back to your quarters and told many times over to ‘stay put’ and ‘do not do anything stupid’ and ‘do not do anything at _all_ ,’ you thought you had demonstrated enough patience to earn some information.

Phasma had just finished outfitting you with a new blaster when you snarked, “What’d he do? Stab himself in the eye?”

“No,” she hummed, checking to make sure you had holstered the new weapon properly and that it wouldn’t blow your face off if you decided to sit down. “But General Hux is in critical condition.”

You paused, mouth working over this new information. You… You didn’t know what to say. _You_ —with your nearly endless supply of brains and wit and healthy curiosity—had been stunned into silence.

But in all honesty, you should have seen it coming.

.

.

.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were expecting smug. You were expecting rage and ranting and a long-winded tirade about how Hux had most definitely deserved being de-limbed and blablabla.
> 
> Instead, Kylo Ren was calm.
> 
> And somehow, that was even more unnerving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you guys are all awesome and say the nicest things and wow. I love you all. 
> 
> But the thing I love MOST I think is that, as of last chapter, Luke Skywalker was murdered by his mentally unstable nephew, Finn has been brutally tortured both mentally and physically, Rey is the only Jedi left in the universe, and you guys are like, ‘cool, cool. This is chill.’ But Kylo stabs Hux and everyone is like ‘WOAH WOAH NOT OKAY. TOO FAR. ABORT. ABORT. SHIT HAS HIT THE FAN’
> 
> I adore all of you so, so much.
> 
> (also shout out to my fellow Fannibals who got the reference last chapter. I love that cannibal too much not to tout him about in some fashion or other).
> 
> Peace out and, as always, enjoy~

Your instincts were at war.

First and foremost, you were a doctor. Doctors saved people—that singular sentence was a concise description of any and every task you had ever undertaken. Sure, there were minor surgeries on noses and routine exams that involved much grumbling and the ever polite _“cough,”_ but in the end, all of that? _Saving people_.

And Armitage Hux needed saving.

Secondly, he was… Well. Hux was a fuckboy, and no combination of therapy plus prescription and/or recreational drug use would cure him of it. But at this point in the grand scheme of things, he was **_your_** fuckboy. In a proprietary way, if not sentimental. For the first time in your life, you were friendly with enough people that if you counted them up, you would have to utilize all of the fingers of one _full_ hand. It was an anomaly. And that being said, it was understandable enough that you felt a bit protective of the asshole. If _anyone_ got to kill him, it was _you._ But that also meant that when someone else took a shot, it was your job to keep him alive and well until such a time when offing him yourself was feasible.

Third, and currently the most driving of these instincts—you rather liked being alive. The inherent survival instinct that drove the majority of organism throughout the great big galaxy. It wasn’t something you could control. Living things generally preferred to remain living. And if you left this room, there was a good chance you would no longer _be_ alive. Not that you thought that Kylo would come after _you_ ~~certainly he liked you much more than Hux and you were pretty sure you were safe from imminent decapitation~~ , but the moment your eyes flickered towards the door, Phasma’s glare became a palpable force against your skin.

Kylo might not end you if you tried to save his latest victim, but the chrome dome might.

“Do not even consider it,” said the shining 6’4’’ terror glowering over at you.  

You paused in your ~~what you had hoped to be but had clearly not been~~ subtle scooting towards the door.

“I’m not considering anything.”

She snorted. ~~Or she would have. If she hadn’t been above such mortal things.~~

You were _considering_ perhaps cutting yourself an escape route through the floor with your new lightsaber. (That’s right. **_Your_.**   Kylo may have fallen head over heels for his antique, laser pointer of doom, but you weren’t letting ol’ sparky go so easily. Sloppy seconds or otherwise, you’d cherish it in its rightful master’s place. The real Kylo—the _not_ crazy one—would have appreciated it, you thought.)

“The General has specific protocols in place for circumstances such as this.” A pointed glare. “And you were not incorporated into them.”

Your fingers paused in their twitching descent to the hilt of the clunky saber at your waist.

“I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

Phasma stared you down, all silver sharp lines and cool apathy. “Just as I’m certain you have treatment plans in place, General Hux enacted his own a long time ago.” You had the distinct feeling that she was sneering down her nose at you. “And under these current conditions, you are not to be instated as his physician.”

What the actual fuck.

“But I’m the highest ranking doctor on this vessel,” you gaped, uncomprehending. “Does he even understand—”

“Yes, I’m quite sure he does,” she hummed. “As you thoroughly understand the risks of your own restrictions.”

Your mouth snapped shut and you sighed, boring holes into the ceiling. _Conceited fucker._ At least your stand was based on a lifetime of medical foreknowledge and a perfectly justifiable moral high ground.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

You frowned at that, no longer quite sure.

Phasma’s communicator bleeped and she turned to respond. You strained your ears, trying to pick up the most of it. You caught a few garbled words here and there, but otherwise—

The comm shut itself off with a soft click and Phasma sighed, long and heavy.

“The General has been taken into the operating theater, though they are currently unaware of his exact chances.”

You nodded _. Of course._ Like when Kylo had found himself on your table so very long ago. The extent of the damage of a saber’s bite could never be fully assessed from external analysis alone. It was the inside—the wrecked muscle tissue and singed organs—that made the attack a matter of life or death.

The Captain shifted in her armor—the metal soles of her heels scratching unpleasantly across the floor.

“I’ve been called to monitor the room. You will stay here. Lord Ren will be on his way shortly.” A pause. “One of my troopers has reported that he’s calmed down and is suitably stable once again for holding company.”

“Right.”

_Right._

_…right._

_._

.

.

You were expecting smug. You were expecting rage and ranting and a long-winded tirade about how Hux had most definitely deserved being de-limbed and blablabla.

Instead, Kylo Ren was calm.

And somehow, that was even more unnerving.

“Kylo, what did you do?”

He shrugged out of his black cloak and laid it gently aside—rolling out his shoulders like he was just returning from his usual training sessions or something of the like. Like he hadn’t just tried to _gut_ his superior.

“Hux isn’t my superior.” A pause as he worked at the uppermost layer of his confounding ensemble. “Or at least, he isn’t anymore.”

“ _Dying_ doesn’t alieve him of his station.”

Off came the top layer of tunic. Another flex of the arms.

“I spoke with Supreme Leader Snoke,” he said, as if he was discussing the weather. “And he agreed that Hux lacks drive—that _I,_ on the other hand, have surpassed his expectations.” Another pause, as he adjusted the saber at his belt. “And that I was allowed to do whatever I saw fit in order to ensure that the First Order continues to prosper.”

Your brow furrowed low, baffled. “And attacking one of our top Generals and strategists—that’s _helping_?”

He turned then with a metallic snarl, “ _Hux wouldn’t know how to deal with the Jakku girl if she arrived in the shuttlebay to turn over her saber herself.”_

“And that’s why _you’re_ here—to _help him_ with that,” you said. “Look, I have my own grievances with Hux, and I’ll admit, sometimes I really hope that he chokes on his stupid morning oatmeal and puts us all out of our misery.  But hunting the Jedi—that’s what _you_ do. Even then, Hux works in the background. He keeps us safe—keeps things running smoothly from the shadows so that you can do what needs to be done to—”

“And you think I can’t keep us safe?” he snapped.

You ground your knuckles into your temples _. Of course that’s what he took from it, **the freaking emo clusterfuck—**_

“I know you can,” you amended.  “What I’m _saying_ is that you and Hux have your own roles to play— _both of which_ are important.” A pause. “And… _stabbing_ him? That’s a no-no.”

“Why do you care so much?” He was back to that eerie calm that left you so unsettled.

“I just _explained_ everything,” you huffed, hands coming back up to kneed at your forehead. You sighed, bone deep and weary.

 _God_ this was **_not_** what you were expecting to have to deal with today. If you’d known, you would have at least eaten a proper breakfast. Maybe put the extra risk into pilfering that banana nut muffin—

You frowned irritably at the pointed toes of your boots. “And what about Snoke? What happens when he finds out that you—” you made an exasperated sort of gesture above your head, “—you know, _flambéed_ one of his generals?”

He pulled off his helmet with practiced ease and shook out his hair. You stared resolutely at his back, arms crossed and heel tapping sharply against the black tiles.

“Well?”

 “You can ask him yourself,” he drawled, setting the doom bucket aside. “He’ll be here soon enough to assist in the final preparations for the death of the Jedi.” He plucked off his gloves delicately, back still to you. “The Supreme Leader has her cornered, but he wants to be present for the final execution.” A pause then, almost like he was preening—all peacock-levels of pride. “He wants us to bring in the new era— _together._ ”

Your brain half-stuttered at that, not quite sure which part of that fiasco to focus on first.

“We _found_ Rey?”

“Yes.”

“And Snoke is coming? _Here_?”

“Yes.”

You sort of zoned, eyes locked on the space above his shoulder. _They knew where Rey was. Snoke was coming. They’d **found** Rey—the little Jedi you’d been tailing and hunting and—_

“Since when?!”

He shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s been taken care of.”

_Dear God, you really should have swiped that muffin._

Ugh. Foresight was a terrible thing.

You were about to ask him why in Millicent’s name the o’ mighty leader had been hoarding all these secrets like some sort of ugly, ancient dragon to gold, when the tail end of the dark menace’s proclamation managed to claw itself back up to the forefront of your brain.

“A new era…?”

“Just like Darth Vader wanted—just as it should be,” he said, almost whimsical. “I’m finally finishing what my grandfather started.” He turned to face you then and, anatomically feesible or otherwise, your heart sank down low in your gut. “The time of the Jedi is at an end.”

He swooped in to crush you to his chest and run long fingers through your hair. You stared intently at his face, trying to catch his eyes from behind that glorious black fringe that you so adored.

“And what comes next,” you prompted, trying to peek around that ruffled mess of dark hair. “After all the Jedi are gone?”

He pulled back a bit then with a smirk, and his delight seeped all the way up into those glowing golden eyes.

“Order. Chaos. Whatever we want. It’ll be ours. The whole galaxy will be _ours_.”

As nice as ruling the universe honestly sounded, you caught those red-ringed irises with your own and couldn’t help but feel like that extra muffin would have been nicer.

.

.

.

Let it be known that you were, for all intents and purposes, a steady pessimist with strong realist leanings. You were not a fan of people or aliens or much else, but you found them _fascinating_. As a general rule you believed that each and every creature had a bit of darkness swirling deep within the confines of their thoracic cavities. People were just more _fun_ that way.

Let it be known that you—the greatest doctor in all the galaxy, and therefore definitely someone of worthwhile opinion—did not _believe_ in true _purity_ of any sort.

And let it be known that on whatever day this was, and whatever hour it so happened to be, Finn-the-stormtrooper-gone-rogue had changed your lifelong mindset entirely, and you were of the singular belief that this scrappy man in rags hadn’t a drop of evil in him.

Because when you sat in your familiar space at the end of the torture table, he looked up at you with his beaten face and sad, sad eyes and asked, all quiet and sincere—

“Are you okay?”

And he meant it.

You reclined back on the metal gurney—narrowly avoiding rubbing against a smear of blood—and intertwined your fingers across your belly.

You sighed with all the weary distress of an aging housewife whose husband kept tracking dirt all over her freshly swept floors. “Kylo’s gone crazy again.”

“… _gone_ crazy?”

You made a dismissive sweep with your hand. “Fine. _Was_ crazy. Is now craz ** _ier_**.”

“Did he… _do_ something?” Finn swallowed. “To you?”

“Oh, no. Of course not. But I’m fairly sure he’s a Sith or something now, and he stabbed Hux, and now he’s going to team up with Snoke to kill that friend of yours and take over the galaxy, so…” _Man._ Saying it out loud… _Today had **not** been a good day. _ Finn was staring over at you in abject horror and you groaned, reaching up to run a hand through your hair. “And I never even got my muffin. **_No_**. I had to have _oatmeal_ this morning like a _heathen—”_

“Kylo’s going to kill Rey?” Finn squawked, horrified.

Oh. Right.

You nodded and Finn’s dark eyes grew glassy and hot as he shook. “He—He _can’t_ —”

“Well, he’s certainly going to _try,_ ” you huffed. “And I hate to break it to you, but I’m sure you noticed already—taunting Kylo with his grandfather’s saber and _losing_ it to him in the process? Bad idea.” Your hands returned to your lap. “Your friend seemed like she was able to handle herself well enough when she had it, but unless I’m mistaken, now she doesn’t even have anything to fight him _with_.” Tri-bun was _doomed_. Surely. There was no hope for her.

“No—That’s not true!” he spluttered, horrified. “They—there was—”

And then he cut himself off with a jolt—jaw snapping shut just as soon as it’d opened.

You frowned and sat forward. “They have something? Finn, what do they have?”

He burrowed into his arms and shook, head twitching back and forth and lips pressed together so tightly you were half expecting him to tear his face in two.

“Finn—”

_“I’m sorry to interrupt, doctor. May I speak with you for a moment?”_

You turned. There was a woman at the door who you didn’t quite recognize. All decked out in a brand new sergeant’s uniform but not quite holding herself with the sort of haughtier so common in newly promoted officers. She looked shaken, certainly. _But more importantly—_

You slipped from your perch and moved to her side, sparing Finn one last, fleeting, look as the cell door slipped shut behind you.

Millicent mewed unhappily from her place in the twitchy Sergeant’s arms and you offered your own expectantly. The woman gratefully transferred her grumpy passenger onto you and the orange tabby curled pleasantly against your chest—content, you assumed, to be held by someone who respected her queenly stature. You shifted the cat to rest more comfortably against your shoulder and stared down your other visitor. The Sergeant stood stiff and quiet, but you could tell there was something else she needed to say.

It was alright. You dragged your fingers through Millicent’s short fur and knew that despite her silence, you had figured it out well enough on your own. There was no reason for him to—the eternally stubborn General Hux would never have surrendered his life companion so easily, or at all. There was—he wouldn’t share her for the world. You knew that better than anyone.

You sighed and continued stroking the soft tufts of fuzz at the base of Millicent’s pointed ears. “The General didn’t survive then.”

The Sergeant seemed thrown for a moment, but shook her head in a soft ‘no’ for an answer. “He passed away during the surgery. There were too many complications. I’m sorry.”

Why was she sorry? You’d—you’d gotten a new cat out of it, hadn’t you? Off of that, had the ginger really deemed ** _you_** to be the safest option for providing further care for his most prized possession? You found that hard to believe… And—and _besides,_ Armitage Hux was the closest thing to an archenemy you had. You certainly weren’t _sad._ No. Not at all. Who in their right minds would be **_upset_** about the passing of General Armitage Hux?

“Doctor?”

You blinked away the unpleasant tightness in your eyes and the even less pleasant thoughts swirling about your skull all at once. You shifted Millicent back into the cradle of your arms, snug up against your chest. “Sorry—just a little distracted. I think I have a bit of cat allergy.”

“Oh,” she frowned, a bit more sympathetic than was strictly necessary. “My apologies. I should have checked before I brought her to you. I can find someone else to—”

“ ** _No_**.” Your arms came up, caging the poor kitty further. “No. It’s alright. I’ll get used to.”

“If you’re certain.”

Yes. Of course you were certain. You were hardly more certain of anything else.

Millicent mewed softly and the whiskers twitching at her nose tickled your throat. You finagled her a bit more and then set off for your quarters. You could already see the delicate web of crisscrossing hairs adorning the black fabric around your neck and shoulders. Well, you were just going to have to learn to incorporate cat hair into your wardrobe. You did dress rather plainly. The orange strands may end up working to your advantage—a kind of organic accessory that you would wear with pride.

You scratched behind her ears as you walked and watched as a tiny storm of kitty hair fell to layer a fresh coat of fuzz atop your black sleeves. You thought of the endless stretches of ebony fabrics and surfaces that made up your chambers.

_Man, Kylo was going to have a fit._

But somehow, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

Hux would have probably thought it was hysterical.

.

.

.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You fiddled with the Kyber Crystal around your neck. The gauze holding it together was almost completely worn through at this point. With a gentle tug it came undone and you observed the loose crystal carefully. It had been through a lot, the poor thing. But it still seemed rather sparkly. Despite the hole Kylo and put in it and all the other abuse it’d endured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy May the Fourth!!~
> 
> The Last Jedi trailer has me shook. Though I wish Kylo's scar was a bit less... clean? It certainly looked much messier in the movie. But maybe that's just me. I'll be happy to see the emo in any way, shape, or form. 
> 
> Happy finals to all my fellow dying students. The next update will be out much sooner. I needed a big spur to get myself going again, and, well... Y'all will understand. I am READY. So here we go.
> 
> Enjoy~

There was no funeral announcement, which you found odd.  

While, yes, you could see Hux pushing aside mourning rituals for practicality’s purpose, surely he was— _had been_ haughty enough to believe his own life was worth wasting a bit of everyone’s time.  

But no. It was almost like he wasn’t gone at all. 

Everyone still puttered about with the same stiff-necked urgency. Meetings were still held in the same dank rooms full of equally dank faces. The dining halls still served the same nasty oatmeal. No one seemed to notice, and aside from that one Captain who had acted as the stork in the delivery of your new child, not another soul had offered their condolences. Which was both a relief and downright  _rude_.  

Not only were you a new mother, but your adopted offspring had just lost her father. You deserved some sympathy. Not— _doctor, please don’t cut the line. Doctor, we need you at the next board meeting. Doctor, don’t you think you should fill out those forms for the transplant department? It’s been four months._  Did no one care about your mental health? Or that you had another mouth to feed? 

That mouth was currently crying at the door. 

And in the same way that you had no idea how to deal with a weeping human, crying cats were equally a mystery. If not more distressing.  

When you’d first brought Millicent back to your room, the feline had explored each and every crevice that she could manage to fit her nose into. Then, she’d curled up on Kylo’s pillow and slept. And then, when she’d woken up hours later, she had apparently decided that she’d had enough of you and would like to go back to mommy please. Naturally, that wasn’t happening. And she’d seemed to realize that after much pawing at your leg and grumbling by the door. So she’d started to cry.  

You’d tried petting her. You’d tried offerings of food and fish innards. You’d tried string toys and fake mice and obnoxiously saccharine cooing. 

 _Nothing_. 

“Look. He’s not coming back.” 

More meowing. 

“I know. It sucks. You’ve been uprooted and I’m sure you’re upset. But you’ll have more fun with me, I promise.” 

The wailing continued. 

“You and Kylo should start a club—the proud organization of ‘let’s not listen to the most rational person in the room because  ** _emotions and angst.’_** ” You lolled back against the pillows and stared up at the slick, black ceiling. It was like living inside an oil spill.  _But on the subject of your favorite turd and his astounding new levels of said angst_ — 

Millicent had finished crying at the door and instead decided to hop up onto the mattress and cry directly into your face.  

You scooped her up and held her aloft. She looked rather putout over the position but didn’t bite or scratch, so that was good enough. 

“I understand that you’re going through some unpleasant feelings right now, but I’m not the kind of doctor who deals with this sort of thing. And to be perfectly honest, there are more important things to worry about right now. For example—” you nodded pointedly to the pillow that Millicent had shed all over. “My husband is missing. Well, he’s not  _actually_ my husband. But point being, my bucket is gone. And I need to get him back.” 

The orange ball of fluff blinked down at you, still looking fairly discontent.  

“Well  _obviously_  just sitting here isn’t helping, but I don’t know where to start. See the problem?” 

Another irritated flicker of whiskers 

“Yes.  _Thank you_  for pointing out the obvious. I am a coward. Anything else you’d like to get off your chest while you’re at it?” You paused. “I do not  _smell_. If anyone  ** _smells_** , it’s  _you_ —and oh my God. I’m arguing with a cat. I’m going insane.” 

Millicent sniffed and you reached a finger up to scratch behind her ear. 

“No offense. You’re a lovely conversation partner. I just—” You propped yourself up and the kitty reluctantly curled herself into your lap, seeming resigned to her terrible fate of having you as a mother. “I need to figure out what to do. I need to fix this.  _Again_. Why am  _I_ always the one who has to do everything?” you whined.  

Millicent looked on—entirely unrepentant.  

“Well,” you huffed, scooping the cat gently off of your thighs and placing her neatly on Kylo’s pillows. “I suppose it’s time to be proactive. You stay here, Millie. I can’t have Kylo stabbing you too.” 

Millicent, oddly enough, did not reply. 

. 

. 

. 

You had never seen the occupants of  _The Terminus_  so frazzled. You had planned on seeking out Alen first. Then perhaps Olin and finally Finn. Alen would be understanding of your situation—you’d addressed it before certainly, when Eve told you to  _fuck the Sith away_ (and, gee, look how well that **hadn’t** worked). Olin knew Kylo better than perhaps anyone else on board minus your sparkling self. And then Finn’s general facial expressions would let you know if your potential plans had any merit (see: blank confusion or mild distress) or were just downright ludicrous (see: active distress).  

But, of course, your plans never really tended to work. Ever. You were only marginally thrown off when Jaina met you halfway to the infirmary amidst all the chaos and looped her arm through yours before more or less dragging you away into the unknown. 

“Where have you been?” she hissed. 

“In my room.” 

Truth or otherwise, the answer didn’t seem to satisfy her much, if at all. “You should have been in the shuttle bay  _hours_ ago. Snoke is set to arrive in less than half an hour.” 

Well, that explained the pandemonium.   

“You’re Lord Ren’s confidant and a high ranking member of the Board,” she snapped. “Did you think you could just  _slip away_?” 

“To be perfectly honest I wasn’t really thinking at all.” 

Another half-snarl and you glanced over at the irritated Knight curiously. 

“Not that it’s not good to see you, but where’s Olin?” There seemed to be an unspoken consensus amongst the merry band of killers that Olin was the designated doctor sitter. Whenever you needed corralling or general management, Olin was the one sent in to do so. None of the others seemed to be able to tolerate you enough to carry out the task on a regular basis.  

“Out looking for you in the cell block. We were all sent out to find you.” 

You had been in your  _room_. Not hiding out in the ass crack of Illum or something else equally as obscure.  

“Kylo would have known where I was.” 

A pause. Jaina wasn’t every really one to come off as unsettled, but she did so now. And that made  _you_ unsettled. 

“Lord Ren is preoccupied.” 

In other words, fanboying over his up-and-coming debut to Snoke—all emo’d up and ready to tussle, with that stupid shiny lightsaber and his stupid yellow eyes.  

If Jaina sensed the sour cloud of doom that drew over you, she didn’t show it. Though to be fair, she may simply not have cared. 

“Well.” You cleared your throat. “To the gallows it is then, I suppose. And to think,” you sighed, forlorn. “I was just getting used to the idea of being a single mother.” 

The murderess didn’t even bother to grace you with an amused quirk of the brow.  

. 

. 

. 

The speech was horrendous, as was the procession leading to it.  

Snoke arrived on a shining Command Shuttle and was met by an entourage of his best and brightest: Kylo, Chrome Dome, a newly promoted Major Mitaka, alongside a slew of lieutenants and colonels whose names you had never bothered to learn. The wrinkled old testicle didn’t seem to bat an eye at the absence of his top General. You tried not to frown as he floated past—Kylo at his heel. That ugly, silver, saber stark against the rest of his entirely black ensemble.  

Those eerie, pale eyes of his skirted over you where you stood tucked between Olin and Jaina but nothing else—no furrow of the brow, no tilt of the lips, not the hint of a glimmer in those strange blue irises. He continued on to the ridiculous stage that had been set for him and Kylo followed.  

And thus began that horrendous speech which you had alluded to earlier. 

Snoke was not known for his charisma. 

~~In fact, among the general populace of the First Order, Snoke wasn’t known as much of anything but ‘Supreme Leader who ought not to be fucked with.’~~

As he stood above the bunch of you and droned on about the war coming to an end, of peace and prosperity and good tidings for all and blablabla, you were half on your way to falling asleep. Without Olin constantly jabbing you in the side, you just may have. You found yourself missing Hux and his equally awful if not marginally more entertaining tirades.  

All the while, Kylo stood at his side like a proud little puppy—proverbial tail wagging up a storm as his master talked about delineating rankings and establishing a more sturdy economic hierarchy.   

You started leaning a bit too much on Olin and got another firm poke in the ribs.  

“I understand that when it comes to logistics and the future of this entire operation, you have the attention span of a Gungan, but this is  _important._ So pay attention.” 

You nodded. 

That wasn’t it at all. ~~Well. Mostly.~~  But you’d let him think what he liked. It was better than melting into an emotional puddle over the increasingly frustrating gothic fashion disaster who seemed to be slipping further and further away with each crusty word that came tumbling out of Snoke’s lips.  

. 

. 

. 

“Doctor.” 

You tilted your chin downwards in some semblance of respect. 

“Sir.” 

Snoke seemed to stare down his nose at you—not necessarily out of arrogance, more that he was simply unwilling to expend the energy to move his head to meet your gaze more squarely.  

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” he droned, pale eyes crinkled up lightly in what you might guess was contentment. “You’ve succeeded. Well done. You make an excellent rock.” 

You couldn’t quite tell if he was making fun of you or not. 

“With all due respect, sir, Kylo seems more unstable than ever.” 

“I have to disagree,” he hummed. His eyes locked at the kyber crystal at your throat—just as it always had when you’d sat on his and Kylo’s training sessions. “The war within him has been won—that precarious balance finally tipped. He’s accepted the Dark Side. And for that, I congratulate you. You did as well as you could.” 

You weren’t exactly sure what he was congratulating.  

“Without you,” Snoke said, almost pensive, “he may never have fallen over the edge. He needed a push—one that I was unable to provide.” A pointed look. 

But of course. You were the catalyst.  _Vader’s Bride 2.0 – Sexy Doctor Edition._  Not that you hadn’t already figured that out. It was just… You didn’t exactly want to  _hear_ it. Let alone that he was toting it so _proudly._  

Now all that was left was for Kylo to choke you out in a fit of rage and then get all his extremities chopped off.  

The end.  

The audience would love it.  ~~Sort of~~. The critics would snivel. The fans would cry and lament his downfall and you would be relegated to a background casualty.  

 _But—_  

You tilted your head and returned Snoke’s piercing leer with one of your own. “ _As well as I could_ , sir _?_  Are you not satisfied with the outcome?” 

For the first time in what may have been ever, the cool apathy with which Snoke seemed to regard everything was drowned out by something sharp. It was still ridiculously subtle and if you hadn’t been looking for it you may have missed the way the skin tightened around his eyes and that already chilly blue gaze froze into something downright vicious. But then you felt the familiar but forever uncomfortable sensation of icy fingers poking through your brain. You almost shivered. Kylo’s Force—his presence, whatever you ought to call it—was softer, not nearly so abysmal. Snoke’s digging left the hairs raised across your arms and a foul feeling in your stomach. It only took a moment, but it appeared he hadn’t found whatever he’d been looking for and the harsh crease warping his brow smoothed. 

“Of course I am, doctor. You’re dismissed.” 

You turned to leave. 

“Oh and, doctor? Your services are no longer required. You can return to the medbay, where you belong.” 

. 

. 

. 

 ** _Fwoom._**  

The target exploded in a mess of splintered wood and paint chips.  

Kylo’s saber buzzed like an angry bee.  _And you know what—?_  

You smashed the remaining bits of target to even tinier, more singed, bits—just as livid as the weapon in your hands. Parts of the floor caved and sizzled beneath the plasma blade but you didn’t care. What had the  _floor_  ever done for you? You’d kill it too.  

 _Return to the medbay_  your  ** _ass._**   

You weren’t going  _anywhere_. 

And Snoke’s bizarre half-stroke at your inquiry only further solidified that.  

Something wasn’t right. And you were going to figure that out. But until then, you were going to tear apart this training room and send the financial department into Kylo-Ren-tantrum levels of freak out.  

You brought down the unstable blade again and again—wrecking the wall and too quickly burning a gaping hole through the thick metal paneling.  

“Doctor.” 

Your visitor stepped backwards just in time to avoid a saber through the face. 

“ ** _What?_** ” 

Eve looked over at you, unimpressed despite the snarling mass of crimson lighting your face.  

“I heard you’re coming back to the medbay—reassigned as head doctor. Full shifts.” 

You turned and continued your task of floor genocide.  

“I’m not going.” 

“Oh. Good.” 

You paused in your vicious hacking to face her, brow furrowed low in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?” 

She shrugged. “Despite what the others might say, I don’t really want you back. You’re far too uptight for my taste.” 

“I’m  _thorough_.”  

She shrugged yet again, entirely undaunted by the glowing stick of doom crackling and spitting hardly a few feet from her nose. 

“Also heard your boyfriend was sent out ahead of the rest of us. Grunt level scouting mission masquerading as some over glorified hoopla or other.” 

You frowned. “Seems like you hear a lot of things.”  

“It’s not my fault that people around here talk loud enough to wake the dead.” 

Idly you wondered if that was possible. It seemed like a Jedi sort of thing to be able to do. You wondered if  _your_ thoughts could do that. They seemed loud enough. Whatever. You had more important things to worry about. 

The saber fizzled out with a soft  _shhhhhwp_  and you hooked the warm hunk of metal back to your hip. 

 “Did you come here just to insult me or did you need something?” 

Eve looked honestly perplexed. “I never insulted you. But yes. I’m here to help.” 

Your brows shot all the way up your forehead, practically burying themselves in your hairline. “ _You._  Helping  **me**.  _Why_?” 

Her shoulders rose and fell. “Alen is making me.” 

 _Oh, that perfect little munchkin of a man_. Always looking out for everyone he could. Even if this particular brand of help was far from wanted.  

“Well.” You poked at her distracted silence. “Get on with it.” 

“I was having breakfast with Elle,” she began.  ~~You were not overly surprised that Eve was on good terms with one of the more vicious torturers the First Order had to offer~~ , “and she mentioned that Snoke paid a visit to that prisoner you seem to like so much.” 

You didn’t  _like_ Finn. He was just a phenomenal sounding board for your ramblings. But you didn’t correct her. 

“So? They’re going to use him as bait for Rey.” Conversation between a cat and the mouse’s cheese was hardly bizarre.  

“That’s the thing. That Rey woman,” Eve continued, picking idly at her cuticles. “That’s all he talked about. Something about her resolve or something like that. Her  _principals._  It sounded like a bunch of Jedi nonsense when Elle repeated it back to me, but,” another shrug, “you seem to be into that sort of thing. Alen heard and ordered me to tell you.” She made some sort of bizarre gesture to herself. “So here I am. And I told you. So goodbye.”  

You frowned, looking her over as she ambled back from whence she’d come.  

“Did he mention Kylo?” you tossed at her back. A pause as you chewed over a better question. “Did he mention killing her?” 

Eve shrugged once more and retrieved a dulled scalpel from her scrub pockets to better work at her nails. “Not that I know of.” 

The irritating medic disappeared around the corner and you were left perplexed and not quite sure why her minimal comments had left you so uncomfortable.  

. 

. 

. 

It was like Boonta Eve, Empire Day, and every Stormtrooper’s birthday all rolled into one.  

The Terminus was alive with festivity and joy. Champagne was popped. Food was consumed en masse. People were hugging and shifting about less anxiously jumping around and laughing. Because the war was more or less over. Because today was the day the Supreme Leader would touch down on planet whatever with Kylo Ren and his army of bucket-headed soldiers and wipe the last Jedi from existence.  

And there you sat, slumped in the corner with a metaphorical rain cloud brewing over your head and snarling at anyone who stepped too close.  

Olin sat dutifully at your side despite the general ambiance of absolute misery. You had a strong feeling that someone (cough Kylo cough) had ordered him to stick around, but you liked to fancy he enjoyed you enough to do it on his own.  

Miss Sansa Turpt approached you not long after—clean glass flute in hand and cheeks pink with mirth. She took note of the shadow looming above you and her blindingly bright smile wavered. 

"Are you alright, doctor?" 

"This celebrating thing seems a bit premature, doesn't it?" You hummed, twisting the crystal at your throat. "We haven't even won yet." 

Olin settled back more comfortably in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He always seemed to cover his chest when he was near you—like he was constantly concerned you'd shoot him again or something. "There isn't a chance that we  _won't_ win. Even if Rey isn't alone, we outnumber them twenty to one. If not more." 

"So? The Resistance blew up the Empire against worse odds, didn't they?" 

Miss Turpt shifted, uncomfortable. "I. Uhm. I—I brought you some champagne!" 

She held the bubbling glass out awkwardly. You didn't quite turn your nose up at it, but it was a close enough thing. Olin was clearly frowning at you from beneath his mask and Sansa's fingers began to shake.  

“Do you… You don’t like champagne, then?”

“No.”

"Oh.” Her face fell. “Even then, it—I'm glad I'll get to work with you again," she tried. 

"I'm not." 

This time you got an elbow to the ribs for your pouting.  

"I—I. Uhm—" 

The Knight took pity on the stuttering woman and retrieved the offering from her trembling hands. Miss Turpt all but sprinted away to the safety of the medical clique, all clustered around the buffet tables and still dawning their gaudy white coats. Olin held the drink up to the sleek metal covering his face for a moment or two, as if sniffing it, before pressing it into your hands.  

"Drink it. You need to relax." 

"Yeah, well, everyone else needs to  _un-relax_ ," you parried, bitter. Did no one see that something was _terribly wrong_? Could they not  _feel_  the dread of the future burrowing beneath their skins like some sort of grotesque parasite? You could. And you hated it. 

He sighed, a rumbling metallic puff that just made you think of Kylo all over again and the cloud over your head continued to grow.  

"I understand that you're anxious. I am too, if I'm being honest." The sharp pause implied that he  ** _was_  **being honest with you, and you better not tell anyone or he'd gore you through and feed you to a swarm of hawk bats. "But you need to pull yourself together. You're no use to anyone like this, let alone Kylo Ren."  

He was right of course, but that only made you more miserable. The galaxy as you knew it was about to come crashing to an end and you were virtually  _useless._ And you, the greatest doctor to ever set foot into the belly of this horrible beast, had  _never_ been useless before.  

"I know I'm not a Jedi, or a Sith, or even Force sensitive," you mumbled, "but I  _feel_ something. Something is going to happen."  _Something **bad**_ was heavily implied. Olin seemed to get that at least. 

Then, to your absolute shock, the murderous Knight offered you his arm, looking fairly put out as he did so. You curled into it like a cat—torn between smirking up at him and his show of any sort of sentimentality or just playing along and hoping he wouldn't realize he'd made a mistake and shove you ass-first to the floor. You chose the latter.  

He patted your shoulder lightly, mask tilted back as he glared at the ceiling. "You will deal with it. Just as we all will." 

You glanced up at him beneath your lashes for a moment before downing the contents of the champagne flute in one go. Your face convulsed and twisted into something not quite human as your taste buds shriveled up and offed themselves one by one. You barely managed to retain enough dignity to avoid straight up coughing it all back up.

Olin barked out a laugh and you burrowed your face in your hands.  

"See. Relaxing, yes?" 

" **No**." 

"Well," he hummed, "it certainly made  _me_  feel better." 

You jabbed a tight fist into the shoulder you'd shot and were sent tumbling to the floor hardly a moment after.

. 

. 

. 

Finn stood strong, with purpose—mouth wavering in and out of a grimace and arms shaking. But even with all that twitching going on, he was more composed than you’d seen him since his arrival.

“It seems you’re going back to your friends,” Phasma intoned, bland.

The ex-stormtrooper looked over at the gargantuan woman who had once been his commanding officer, clearly uncomfortable and shifting awkwardly in his cuffs. They fit bizarrely on his wrists—what with him missing a hand and all.

“That’s what they told me.”

Chrome dome hummed and you glared over at the pair out of the corner of your eye. Your hand rested heavy on the saber tucked away at your waist. You stood in the center of the Knights of Ren, decked out in your full ebony uniform, cloak and all. There were only five of them now—Gaeriel or whatever having kicked the bucket and Kylo having abandoned the lot of you in the wake of his mental collapse and brand new creeper eyes. You glanced past Olin and Jaina. You still had no idea who the other three were…

The ship jerked a bit beneath your feet.

“It’s a poor deal,” another trooper mumbled. His partner seemed to shift in agreement, but no objections were made.

A deal.

_An exchange._

That’s what Snoke had called it.

Upon arrival, your unit was to head out first—ensure that everything was set to play out correctly and all that. Then Snoke and Kylo would arrive. Rey would come forward and offer her life for her friend. Finn would be returned to whatever stragglers remained and the Resistance would disband or be executed. It sounded bizarre when you heard it. The First Order was not known for mercy. More often than not, even rational bouts of benevolence were set aside in favor of brutality simply for brutality’s sake.

But these were the orders.

And as much as you wanted to pick them apart, you were the minority here. No one wanted to listen to your anxious griping. They all just wanted this to be _over_.

The ship shook again.

_“We’re coming up on Dantooine.”_

You fiddled with the Kyber Crystal around your neck. The gauze holding it together was almost completely worn through at this point. With a gentle tug it came undone and you observed the loose crystal carefully. It had been through a lot, the poor thing. But it still seemed rather sparkly. Despite the hole Kylo and put in it and all the other abuse it’d endured.

_“Landing party, prepare for departure.”_

You huffed and glared out the window at the sprawling green landscape, trying not to fiddle with the saber at your hip.  You thought back to all those months ago, when Kylo had first begrudgingly offered you the use of his baby in exchange for your compliance. _Should anything happen_ , he’d said, heavily implying ~~to your extreme distaste~~ that he would die in the field and you would be left to fend for yourself, _it’s the strongest weapon you have available._

_“Shuttle gate opening in fifteen seconds. Landing party, at the ready.”_

You squeezed your crystal tight between your fingers before slipping it into the folds of your cloak.  

.

.

.

The three buns had disappeared, as had the bizarre curtain-wrap getup. Somehow, the shock of loose, short hair made her look even younger. For the first time you found yourself wondering just how old this girl was.

A handful of other haggard rebels stood behind her. You recognized your attractive kidnapper among them, sans the neon orange catastrophe. His eyes hadn’t moved from the prisoner at your side.

“Here we are at last.”

Clear brown eyes shot past you to glare at the two men making their way through the lines.

“I will admit,” Snoke drawled, black robes flowing around him like dark ink seeping through water, “With the way things were progressing, I had thought we’d never have the chance to meet.” Eerie, pale, irises traced over the young Jedi—whether curious or amused, you couldn’t quite tell. “It is interesting… to finally see you in person.”

“Our agreement,” Rey said, shoulders gaunt and glare locked on the Master and Student moving her way. “You’ll honor it?”

Now that _was_ amusement on his face, clear as day. “Your life for your companions, yes.” He turned then to address the ragtag group flanking her. “All of you may leave with your lives, if you so choose.” A quick glance then to Phasma and her captive. “And your friend, as promised.”

Rey’s eyes flickered over Finn and you could see distress pull at her brow, but she didn’t mention his less than perfect condition—the haunted look on his face, the cauterized stump still tangled up in metal cuffs. Her mouth stayed pressed into a tight line, freckles stark against her pale cheeks.

Her eyes slipped closed and she breathed in, breathed out. A sigh that seemed to rattle the air.

She stepped forward.

“Then you have me.”

Snoke nodded, satisfied.

Finn was pushed forward. He stumbled over his feet—choking on words like _‘no, Rey, no’_ and _‘please, don’t do this’_ and ‘ ** _Rey._** ’

Kylo stepped forward then too—a dark force between them _. He wasn’t wearing his helmet_ you realized with a start. The scar splitting his face and his thirty-two freckles and those piercing yellow eyes that _you hated hated hated._ He stared down at the reunited pair, brow flat and face empty.

Rey smiled, soft, and Finn shook.  

“ _Rey. Please_.”

Snoke nodded. “Kylo.”

And then that sharp blue saber was shoved up through Finn’s chest and Rey _screamed_.

.

.

.

The world seemed to explode.

You and your unit were hurled backwards, tossed like ragdolls into the trees and across the field. It was like being smacked with a fucking _brick wall_ and you landed on your back over fifteen feet away—heaving and choking and trying to pull even the smallest of breaths into your lungs.  

You managed to haul yourself up onto your knees—squinting into the mess of dust and chaos. Sparks shot off into the air and the ground gave a rather worrisome _crack._ You fell forward onto your hands, watching in half-awe, half-horror as the dirt beneath you began to splinter and fall apart.

Kylo and Snoke had managed to stand their ground, but everyone else (all those rumpled goody-two-shoes as well) had been shot off in all sorts of directions.

And at the center of the swirling dirt vortex and cracking earth was Rey. Sobbing and screaming and digging at her hair like she was trying to tear herself apart. White lightning danced across the exposed skin of her arms in sharp bursts and with every shaking sob the air seemed to press down harder and harder—like a physical weight over your head. And when she looked up—hair a wild halo around her head—her irises were rimmed with red and yellow.

Kylo looked thrown, his own golden eyes wide with confusion and staring back and forth between the raging Jedi gone Dark and the Supreme Leader. Like he was waiting for his mentor to explain what had gone wrong.

And Snoke?

Snoke was _smiling._

.

.

.

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And you know what? Feeling things? Being scared for these people because you cared beyond deeply about them—well, that wasn’t wrong. That didn’t make you pathetic like you always griped. That just made the adventure more thrilling—upped the stakes. And boy, were the stakes upped.
> 
> But this craziness? This was all you. And you were ready.
> 
> You had to be.
> 
> And you were going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The end of the road. This chapter is fucking MASSIVE (31 pages long, and almost 13k words).
> 
> I've been preening and fixing, and this is it. This is what my brain has decided to make. It was a pleasure writing it (for the most part), and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did making it. 
> 
> Peace out.

The first thought that ran through your skull was quite simply _holy shit._

After that, the frame quickly expanded to _holy shit, I’m going to die._ And then _holy shit, we’re **all** going to die and Snoke **betrayed** us. _His own people. His own _organization._ He was in fucking _charge_ of all of you! And here he was! Committing trade suicide.

This was not okay.

There were dirt and rocks flying everywhere, and Rey was fucking _crackling_ with electricity and power, and there was mud caked onto your face and front from when you’d been hurled against the ground and _this was not okay._

Kylo still looked just as shocked—golden eyes narrowed with uncertainty and legs shaking to keep from peddling backwards towards the familiarity of his master. The saber in hands hummed—a shining blue beacon amidst the storm of dust and shadow. It was ever light, airy, and not at all fitting for the hellscape that was rapidly unfolding.

Snoke’s hyena grin had settled into something a little less self-satisfied though no less cruel. He stepped forward, seeming not the least bit concerned with the veritable _bomb_ he had unleashed on the world.

“Well, Rey,” he hummed, as if he was discussing a story amidst friends and not facing down a raging mass of untapped hate and Force awfulness, “he has it coming, don’t you think?”

Kylo’s golden eyes shot open wide and he barely managed to throw himself out of the way of the oncoming freight train that was a very, _very_ pissed off Jedi. Her hand shot out and Poe lurched forward—the seams of his jacket rending themselves in a hurry to unleash whatever was hiding in his pockets. Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber tore through the air with a harrowing screech and in seconds Rey had the brilliant emerald weapon in her hands and was bearing down on the man who had rammed his blade through her friend’s chest. 

A parry. A twist. A haphazard block that left Kylo stumbling. A stab to his thigh that had him retreating. A roar and lunge that left him gasping and clutching at a slice across his abdomen.

He was outmatched _. Underprepared. **Betrayed.**_ Unsure how to react in the face of someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose. Someone who may not have been as strong in a level to level basis, but who had broken so completely and so rapidly that overcoming her was simply out of the question.

And there was nothing you could do.

_Nothing._

She was going to kill him.

And you would have to watch.

You’d have to see him _fall._

Watch him _die_.

Watch the _light **leave his eyes**. _

And there was **nothing you could do.**

It took you a moment to realize you were _shaking_ and that it wasn’t just the monstrous Force juggernauts duking it out a few yards away making the ground tremble.

You were shaking and silent and _useless._

No. **Stop.**

No, this wasn’t okay. This… This was **_beyond_** shitty _, but this is what you dealt with_. This chaos? You’d _lived_ for it not a few months ago. Just because you and everyone you cared about were trapped in this… this _swirling vortex of Force doom_ , that didn’t mean you _lost_ your sense of adventure—of curiosity and intellect and general fuckery.

All those ‘not okay’ things that sent most normal people scurrying for the safety of blast shields and convoluted emotional support networks? You ate them for breakfast ~~metaphorically speaking of course~~ alongside your muffin and tar oatmeal. And even though you hated that oatmeal so damn much, you _ate it_ because you were big and strong and tough, and you may bitch and bitch ‘til the banthas came home, but you _still got shit done._ You were the ~~self-appointed~~ greatest doctor in all the Galaxy. You wore intelligence and charm like the most desirable accessories. Not only did you have the strength and courage to act as Kylo Ren’s rock, but as his _significant other._ Which was considerably more horrifying. 

And you know what? Feeling things? Being scared for these people because you cared beyond deeply about them—well, that wasn’t _wrong._ That didn’t make you _pathetic_ like you always griped. That just made the adventure more thrilling—upped the stakes. _And boy, were the stakes upped._

But this craziness? This was _all_ you. And you were ready.

You had to be.

And you were _going_ to be.

A mess of sparking white lightning shot out and you tumbled away to escape being _electrocuted_ and rolled right into Jaina. She didn’t even ‘oof’—just righted you and kept her eyes trained on the duel unfolding before her.

“What do we do?”

She didn’t even bother to look at you when she said, “Nothing. We’d only get in his way. This is out of our league.”

A massive fissure cut through the dirt and you both dove apart to relative safety.

 _Yes,_ you were _well aware_ of that last bit, _however—_ “There’s always something.”

Jaina righted herself and this time deigned to glance your way, a slowly oozing gash at her shoulder and just seeming entirely put out—by you or the circumstances, you couldn’t quite tell. “You’re oddly optimistic about this.”

“Not optimistic,” you corrected, steadying yourself as you rose to your feet, “ _rational_. There are endless options. We just have to find one that—”

“—That doesn’t get you _blown up?_ ” She snapped as the earth gave another worrisome quake.

“Preferably.”

Kylo managed to land an off-kilter swipe across Rey’s side and she fell back—hand pressed up tight against singed ribs and blood seeping heavy from between her fingers. Snoke shook his head, as though disappointed, and you saw Kylo hesitate. The Supreme Leader raised an arm and Kylo and Rey went soaring apart—giving each fighter a brief moment of respite.

 “Snoke,” you gaped, mind whirring away a mile a minute. “ ** _Snoke_**.”

“ _We have to kill Snoke_.” Jaina paused. “That is _definitely_ going to get you blown up.”

You had a feeling the result would be something similar to that, yes.

“I have Kylo’s saber,” you said, hand going to the bulky metal weapon at your side. “And we have guns. If we can get the Resistance to attack with us, then—”

“—We can take him down.”

Then maybe you could calm Rey. Without the crinkly, squashed testicle-faced demon there to spur her on, you might be able to—

Your legs were yanked out from under you and went hurtling in the direction of the Sith tempest. You practically bowled through an entire platoon of scattered stormtroopers before collapsing at Snoke’s feet. The Supreme Leader shook his head at you in the same dissatisfied way he had just earlier, when Kylo had managed to land a blow.

“Walls are all well in good in times of peace, but now…” he hummed, “We _can_ hear you, doctor.”

You paled.

Instead of the quick and brutal evisceration that you were expecting, Snoke turned to the raging she-hulk and smiled once more—like a parent offering a sniffling child a cookie in atonement for a scraped knee.

“What do you think, hmm? Kylo took something of yours, didn’t he? Should you not repay the favor?”

_Oh no he fucking **didn’t.**_

She stepped towards you and you may have begun to panic a wee bit.

But, no no. Rey was too pure. A perfect little cinnamon roll who maybe had the hates for Kylo and his ‘best-friend-shanking’ ass, but _you?_ You were just the poor doctor.

Who had openly mocked her to her face when imprisoned.

And had actively attempted to wage a bit of psychological warfare by implying her side was just as bad as your own.

You were only the person who had planted those seeds of doubt in her head, which eventually led to her giving up her base’s location and thus the untimely demise of both her mentor and the entire fucking planet, as well as the steady collapse of the Resistance.

And now her closest companion was lying face down in a pool of his own sticky blood— _and you were fucking **dead.** _

The saber came roaring down over your head and thank Heavens your bucket still had enough ~~love for you~~ sense about him to jump in the way and throw up his own spitting weapon in retaliation. The clash of green and blue sent hot sparks showering down, and you found yourself being tugged up and away by that ever familiar Force. You landed in the dirt a few feet away, but your vicious, emo, guard dog didn’t seem to think that was quite far enough. After a particularly vicious overhead attack that sent Rey reeling, his hand shot outwards and you were pushed back and back—all the way to where poor, downed, Finn lay. You landed with an ‘oof’ at the ex-trooper’s side and turned hurriedly to get the dueling students back into view.  

Snoke was watching the whole thing go down with all the interest of someone browsing casually through channels on the television and you wanted to _snarl._

 _I mean—_ You just _. What?_ You didn’t **_understand_.** _Why_ turn against his organization and choose the placid, tanned, cream puff over your pallid, gothic, wonder. Then proceed to get _irked_ when said goth landed a hit, and then _egg him on to land **more**_ _hits._ What was going _on?_ Was this some kind of Force Olympics? See which angsty fashion catastrophe would make the better apprentice?

Rey snarled and made a lunge for Kylo’s right leg. He swept out of the way with ease but then her hand came up and he went wheeling backwards—Force slapped into kingdom come.

You squinted up at the trio of Force Monsters from your place at the fallen FN’s side, trying still to figure out the nefarious motive behind it all. And you—

You froze.

And looked at the felled man once more.

It was there—almost gone. But it was _there_. A gentle rise and fall. Again and again. He was _breathing_.

**He’s _alive._ **

Rey stuttered to a halt—arms locked outward and saber buzzing angrily in her fists. You hauled yourself onto your knees and pressed a hand into the bloodied but still intact skin at his neck. You could feel the gentle thrum beneath your fingers. It was far from strong—nearly as weak as his breathing. But his pulse was _there._

You could see the tears starting to prick at Rey’s eyes as she felt Finn’s heart through your hands.

“I can save him.” You said a bit hastily, staring strong into those garish, red rimmed irises. “I _will_ save him.”

The first of those tears began to cut a slim path through the dust and grime coating her cheeks and you _swore_ you saw a bit of brown in her eyes.

If Snoke had been making all kinds of teeny, irritated, facial spasms before, well, now he was _pissed—_ and frowning something fierce.

“Rey,” he hummed—all faux politeness and blablabla when it was so very clear he wanted to come over there and tear you a new asshole, “Do not forget what he’s done to you—to the people you love. Your friends. Your master. A man you thought to call _father_.”

But before Miss Protagonist could come to terms with the storm brewing between the respective Light and Dark sides within her, Kylo had slipped forward and rammed that icy blue saber right through Snoke’s back and out his collarbone. It was a quick, sharp, cut. You couldn’t even see the arm fall—just a hunk of smoky, black, fabric slowly spiraling towards the earth. Just as you were about to start cheering and preparing your massive victory hoot for when your beautiful lampshade carved Snoke’s still beating heart from his chest, Kylo fell backwards.

Out of that gaping saber wound poured all kinds of foul shadows. Thick and dark like pitch but twisting through the air as weightless as smoke. You had never seen the likes of it before, and judging by his massively wide eyes, neither had Kylo.

The black sludge-smoke flooded out—circling limbs and permeating the battle field like some kind of charcoal mist. It smelled ­ _putrid_. Both the fledgling Jedi and Sith froze in place—hands loosening around their weapons, as if their limbs were not quite under their control. The shadows swirled and snarled—like sentient things. They circled Rey once, twice, and then returned like yapping dogs to rest at their master’s feet. A thick tentacle of shadow curled out—ensnared the shining blue saber still in Kylo’s hand and swallowed it down with a sickening _crunch._

Snoke turned on Kylo with what must have been his fifth or sixth severely-disappointed-sigh of the afternoon. The shadows curled around his gnarled hands, depositing something into his waiting fingers.

“Oh, Ben. You’ve learned nothing.”

And then that emerald beam of plasma shot back to life and straight through Kylo’s stomach. And anatomically feasible or otherwise you could feel your chest collapsing in on itself and it was suddenly so very, very hard to breathe.

“Sabers have never been my preferred method of execution,” Snoke hummed, almost thoughtful, as he stared down at his impaled student, “but I suppose I can see the appeal. Besides,” a vicious wrench of the sparking green blade, “it seems fitting in a way.”

You would have cried out for him, but that would have been overdramatic and pointless. You… You weren’t entirely sure _what_ to do. And he—he… Luke Skywalker’s glimmering blade retracted with a _shwwpp_ and Kylo collapsed to the ground—hands pressed to his flambéed abdomen and gasping like he’d just sprinted a mile.

Snoke stepped passed him, casually twisting the saber’s hilt around in his singular hand.

“Bit flashy for my tastes,” he mumbled to himself. Kylo’s arms shook and another wave of darkness flooded out, pressing him into the dirt. “Stay down, Ben. I don’t have time for you right now.”

The shadows spun away from Kylo’s collapsed frame and began making their way over to where Rey stood—weaponless and very clearly out of her element. The first strike caught her across the arm, and you weren’t quite sure what you were expecting. The inky dark claws rolled effortlessly across flesh—scorching like fire and leaving the skin it had touched a bubbling ash grey. Like scales. Or stone. And immediately you had a feeling this fight had just gone from plain ol’ unbalanced to _totally and completely unfair on every level._

You glanced back and forth between the young Jedi and your felled Knight for hardly a moment before squirming around to pull Kylo’s bulky saber out from its hiding place wedged against your hip. If he— _when_ he managed to come out of this alive, he would probably ring your neck ( ~~metaphorically, of course~~ ) for even daring to _think_ of loaning his baby to a woman who was arguably his _arch nemesis_. But he would have to deal.

You finally managed to yank the lightsaber free—fully intending to pass it off the nearest and only Jedi available so that she could _fight_ and _save you all_. Then  _whoosh!_ Snoke’s arm shot forward and both the saber and the hand holding it when falling away with a flash of vivid green.

It was a very peculiar feeling that left you staring down in awe at the empty air where your dominant hand had once resided.

Certainly you’d lost body parts before which you had regrown easily enough (though small bits—a finger at the mercy of a very sharp scalpel, a chunk of ear from a very angry loth cat when you were small, a toe out of curiosity) but a _whole hand_. Woah. You felt like you ought to be inducted into some special club.

Not that you couldn’t _regrow_ the thing—it was just. Now was not a viable time to be lacking a hand. _Final boss battle_ and all. Also the _pain_. That was bad. That was actually _really_ bad. And as much as you were fighting it, you still kind of wanted to curl up into a ball and pass out. The smell was perhaps the worst of it. You’d never been bitten with the plasma blade of a lightsaber before and… well, it was like your own personal barbeque—featuring the lower half of your arm as the main course. It was _terrible_.

You could only imagine Kylo’s reaction if he… wasn’t where he was.

And that thought just made you grit your teeth all the harder—certainly worse than the ache from your stupid saber booboo. Your/Kylo’s saber had clattered to the rocky ground not a few feet away, and you glared at the smoking remains in irritation. You could see bits of the shattered Kyber Crystal littered throughout the dirt—like incredibly bright droplets of blood flecked across the brown muck. Worse yet, the majority of the metal seemed intact, but there was a hole straight through its center—piercing its metaphorical heart. Rendering the sparking weapon useless. Gutted. Just like Kylo—

Rey went tumbling away—more falling than dodging as black shadow snared the ground and tore through the air. The slash of dark, mottled, flesh across her bicep stood out stark against the rest of her freckled skin. It almost looked like it was _crackling._

She was losing. Barely keeping pace with Snoke and all his stupid fucking shadow swords. And if she fell too—well. That was it. She needed a weapon. Something. _Anything._

Your eyes fell back to the hollowed out saber hilt and that ever so legendary brain of yours spluttered and puffed its way back into action. You glanced up hurriedly, but Snoke was busy trying to wipe Rey off the face of the planet and didn’t seem too interested in your thoughts. So you push-pulled yourself to the downed saber and hurriedly flipped it back and forth in your palm. This would work. It _would_.

You set the burnt hunk of metal aside and reach down to dig through the innumerable folds of your cloak, fingers awkward and heavy. You’d always wished for ambidexterity and had tried to force it for many years, but never before had it been so necessary. And so equally far from your reach. It took probably fifteen seconds to unearth your cracked Kyber crystal from the mess of dark fabric (perhaps less), but it felt like an age and a half. The beaten blue stone shone bright and strong against the blood and dirt coating your fingers and you flipped it into your palm. You wondered if this was just plausible enough to work, or better yet, if you were just crazy enough to make it work anyways.

You tore into the plating of the shattered saber, ripping through tight cables and pushing aside chunks of metal that were in all likelihood very important. The mess of a weapon hissed and spat and shot off a wave of sparks that bit unpleasantly into your knuckles. You’d practically wrecked your only remaining hand by the time you managed to fight through to the burnt out core. A few sharp crimson shards were lodged into the sides, but otherwise—

It was a snug fit, but you managed to wedge your crystal into the charred cavity. It was fractured, well worn, and in all likelihood as unstable as Kyber Crystals could come, but it made a fitting heart—cool and blue and pulsating sharp. It would work. It would _work._

The ground shook and you tumbled hurriedly out of the way as yet another fissure split the earth.

Rey skittered out of the way of a particularly large surge of black shadow, jumping and summersaulting and contorting every which way to avoid being gored through by the living darkness. Kylo was still where he’d fallen and you grit your teeth, looked at the beaten saber and its new heart, and _pushed_.  

Snoke’s head snapped in your direction with an ugly snarl and his hand shot out just as quickly. But Rey matched it—her own scarred palm reaching outwards. The saber flew out from between your fingers so quickly you were sort of worried that you were about to lose hand numero dos.

You were almost afraid to see where it had zoomed off to, or to _whom_ more accurately. But when you managed to look back up at the chaos, it seemed to universe had finally decided to cut you a fucking break.

Because Rey stood on the other side of the clearing with a horribly clunky but _functioning_ saber in her hands. The brilliantly bright blade shot out with a rumbling purr. It was just as wild and sparking as it had been before—but now that fractured crimson beam sang sharp and high and _blue_. Not clear and cold and almost white as Anakin Skywalker’s saber had been, but deep like the evening sky and _warm._ And you were so very proud of yourself that if you’d had that extra hand, you would have probably patted yourself on the back with it.

Naturally, those grotesque shadow beasts were back on her in a hot second—giving you little to no time to appreciate the admittedly _epic_ picture which had laid out before you—but now, Miss Jedi could cut _down_ those howling beasties. And cut them down she did. She twirled and lunged and fought threw the hoard of monsters with what wasn’t exactly _ease_ , but certainly a high degree of finesse. And the more she slashed and mashed, the deeper the creases around Snoke’s mouth grew. Until the army of ink creatures was practically decimated and the Supreme Evil Overlord had to step in and fight his own battles.

Rey came down like some avenging phantom straight from the void. And the little fiery Jedi went straight for his injured side. Totally unfair play and totally 100% the smart thing to do and you were never so proud of someone for finally learning to fight dirty.

The strange sentient shadow monsters kept coming, but Rey kept on slashing and stabbing. Soon enough, Snoke was on the defensive. One arm was clearly not enough to ward off the raging she-demon he’d tried to create, and despite the massive inky talons digging into any part of the Jedi they could reach, he was still _losing_.

Rey roared and the saber screamed right alongside her.

And that erratic mess of blue sparks was jammed up through Snoke’s chest with a harrowing screech and whirl of shadow. She twisted hard and the plasma blade carried through—up and out—splitting his gnarled face in two as jaggedly as the rest of him.

And this time, it was Snoke that fell.

.

.

.

“Doctor, we’re ready to start with the graft. Are you okay? It will only take a few minutes to start off. We can put you under for the rest.”

Miss Sansa Turpt smiled sympathetically down at you but you weren’t really in the mood for her platitudes. You stared down at your missing hand in distaste.

Not necessarily for aesthetic reasons… _No_. Because you felt declawed. You were a surgeon missing the most necessary part of your dominate arm. And you couldn’t exactly carry out complicated procedures with a hand you couldn’t even _write_ _legibly_ with.

Your gaze swept from the tight swathe of bandages around your stump to the closed operating theater across the aisle. It was all very thrown together. There simply wasn’t enough space to deal with all the injured First Order troops and Resistance officers ( ~~that’s right. _Resistance officers_. Goodness, when had your hearts grown so stupidly soft?)~~. Finn had been shuttled off to a makeshift OR. Rey was being treated somewhere on the opposite side of the medbay. You were here. And Kylo was… just over there. Just out of your reach.

Miss Sansa’s line of sight followed your own and her already tender countenance warped into something so sickeningly compassionate you wanted to vomit.

“They just finished intubating him,” she offered. “It took a while to find the proper staff, but they’re starting with anesthesia so they can begin the procedure.”

“He was stabbed,” you mumbled, like you hadn’t yelled that about fifteen times already to the technicians who had come to scoop up his unconscious ass from the field.

She nodded. “The injury is… extensive. And basic repair won’t cover it the majority of it. It… He was hit really hard. And there’s a lot of internal damage.”

“He needs a full system transplant. Or a regrowth.”

“Yes.”

It was a complicated surgery. Low success rate. Your nails bit into your palm.

Sansa shifted uncomfortably and rested a reassuring hand against your thigh. She removed it swiftly at your bitter glare. “We have our best people working on him. They think they can do it.”

 _But—_ “I **_know_ ** I could do it.”

It was obvious that Miss Turpt was doing her very best not to glance downwards at the mess of bloody gauze and empty space where your dominate hand had once resided.

“He’ll be alright. Eve is heading the procedure.”

 _Not_ what you wanted to hear.

“He didn’t _look_ ‘alright’ the last time I saw him.”

“It’s—There’s a pretty good chance he’ll make it,” Sansa supplied.

It sounded like a lie. A tempting lie, but a _lie_ nonetheless. And even it _was_ true, _pretty good_ wasn’t **good enough.**

You glowered down at your absent hand, scorned. Never had you been so irked at the universe’s poor sense of timing.

You wouldn’t be able to regrow the limb in time. It would take a week at least—four or five days if you _really_ pushed it. And it wasn’t safe. Skin cells replaced themselves constantly, particularly those being strained to recreate destroyed flesh. You could imagine it now—some of those rapidly dividing stem cells sloughing off during the procedure and getting caught up somewhere inside him. Reproducing forever and ever and riddling his body with cancerous growths that you would never be able to fully flush out.

You turned your head away and stared at a mess of black fabric piled at the other side of the infirmary. Surely none of it was a part of Kylo’s complicated ensemble—trash, most likely, from other injured troopers and Resistance officers—but…

“The 2-76-C model,” you said.

Miss Sansa paused, half way through setting the molds beside your bed.

“Doctor…?”

“It’s efficient, as unobtrusive as mechanizations come, and more importantly, quick to install.”

Miss Sansa Turpt withdrew from your side—looking as if you’d just peeled yourself out of your skin and started tap dancing on the table, or shoved a fully functioning and _active_ lightsaber down your throat. Something like that.

“Th—The 2-76-C. It— _That-_ That’s a—”

You closed your eyes tight and held out your stump. “It should take no more than fifteen minutes. So do it now, so I can go scrub in and save my boyfriend’s life.”

.

.

.

The bloodied gloves peeled away with a _snap_ and you slumped down in your chair—head dropping back to rest against the high back and eyes falling closed.

“Doctor.”

You accepted the warm mug offered and Olin frowned over at you. He was surprisingly expressive without his mask. As monotonous and callous as his voice came across, his pale eyes were so oddly revealing. 

“How’d it go?”

You sipped the tea slowly. It was a tad too sweet. But he’d put just the right amount of milk—exactly how you liked it, and how you’d taken it at breakfast for all those many months.

“As well as it could have.”

The fingers on your new hand flexed. You imagined you could hear the gears grinding beneath the prosthetic flesh. ~~Though in actuality there were surely no gears to be found. Far too advanced for that.~~ It was bizarre. Sensations and movement were normal enough—if not improved. But it still felt… alien. Uncomfortable.

He peered down at your artificial limb and took a sip from his own steaming cup. “It suits you.”

You frowned. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

“Again?”

“ _Again_.”

The Knight snorted, though the edges of his eyes were crinkled in amusement. “At some point, that will get old, you know.”

“Please. I’ve shot you _once_. I’ve got a solid six more before it starts to get boring.”

Olin sat with you in silence then for a few minutes. The quiet was refreshing. And needed. You finished your tea and he stood to retrieve your mug.

“Thanks.”

He hummed and began to make his way to the door.

“Relax, doctor,” he tossed over his shoulder. “He’ll be fine. You’ve saved him before, and you’ll do it again.”

You let your head fall back once more and closed your eyes. Your mechanical fingers interlaced with your own, natural, ones and rested neatly in your lap.

.

.

.

You were slouched over at one of the medical-booth desks, fighting through a stack of paperwork. If there was one decent thing about this hand you supposed, it was that it never tired or cramped—no matter how many dotted lines you needed to sign or stupid intern terminology fuck ups you needed to correct.

There was a knock at the door of your booth. You reached for another page and the door slid open.

“What is it?”

“You’re needed at the Council meeting, ma’am.”

With a bone-deep sigh you forced your butt out of your swivel chair and followed the Stormtrooper out of the medbay.  

“I assumed we would be disbanding,” you piped in, irate but ever curious as you tailed the tense looking trooper through the halls. “Snoke betrayed the Order and we wound up aligning with the Resistance and allowing their officers into our facilities.” You rounded a corner. Your escort was starting to look all the more uncomfortable. “There is a _Jedi_ chilling in a hospital bed right down the hall. That all seems pretty _‘end game’_ to me, don’t you think?”

“Then you clearly lack imagination, doctor.”

You stopped in your tracks

The new occupant of the hallway tilted his head at you and smirked in that ever infuriating way of his—arms locked tight behind the back of his stiff jacket and sleeves hanging limp and useless at his sides. “Did you really think this was the end? I’m disappointed in you.”

Your throat felt oddly scratchy, and your eyes equally as irritated. You blinked it away and bit into your trembling lip to keep it in check. You craned your neck in a tight but respectful nod.

“General Hux.”

“Doctor.”

_And lo, the fuckboy hath returned._

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.

.

It was your third cup of tea today. Perhaps you were drinking too much tea. Or perhaps there were simply too many instances in which a steaming cup of hot leaf water was appropriate.

Hux sipped at his own mug contentedly, looking very much like he’d been here all along—like he _hadn’t_ risen from the dead and revealed his newly resurrected self by _insulting you in the hallway._

“You’re alive,” you tried. As obvious as that seemed.

Another sip. “Clearly.”

“ _How_ are you alive?”

He shrugged. “I never died.”

That crossed off about six of your thirty-eight theories. But did little else to assuage you.

The General sighed and placed his cup aside. He crossed one leg neatly over the other and steepled his fingers in his lap. “You noticed it yourself at the time—how volatile Ren was becoming. I had reached out to the Supreme Leader on several occasions regarding the issue, and each time his response to my concerns was… less than reassuring.”

“I think you mentioned that. More or less.”

He hummed in affirmation. “I did. I knew Ren would snap and attack me sooner or later, and I planned to die. Whether forever or for a day. Either way, I would die. If he took my life, then I was gone—as planned. But if not, I would hide myself away—work as usual from the shadows. It was safer that way. And you couldn’t know of course, because—” he made a generic gesture to your head-area which you assumed meant he was bashing that overly loud brain of yours. “Not that I think I would have told you either way. You enjoy seeding gossip and dissent far too much for any covert plans of mine to truly be considered _‘safe.’_ ”

You conceded his point with a gracious tilt of your head.

“Snoke is dead,” he said, all cavalier as per usual. “Not only dead, but disgraced. And as the First Order’s most senior General, it is only natural that I take his place.”

“But we aligned with the Resistance,” you frowned. “That can’t count for nothing.” Not that you _wanted_ to join up with those obnoxious do-gooders. But there were no take backs in war. Not really.

“What you saw of the Resistance on Dantooine is what they have left, doctor. No more than fifty officers, if that. They are in no position to continue their _resisting_ ,” Hux snorted, and you kind of had to agree with him on that. “If you step back and look at the larger picture—the end goal of all this—our desires are more or less the same.”

At this, you rolled your eyes and he hit you with a particularly sour but so very familiar glare.

“Peace, doctor. Unity. An end to the needless war and chaos that has choked the Galaxy for eons.” A brief pause to shoot you a particularly pointed arch of a ginger brow. “Do you suppose that will be a problem for you, doctor? I know how much you tend to thrive on _disorder_.”

You waved his ‘worry’ away. “I think I’ve had enough chaos for a while, General.” _A few weeks worth, at the very least._ After that… Well. You’d figure it out.

“Our organization may desire to maintain a higher degree of control than the Resistance believes fitting,” he continued, “but the First Order _will_ bring peace to the Galaxy. Those who wish to join us or settle quietly will be given the choice. The others will be released into space or executed, depending on their level of…” his lips twitched a bit, “ _fervor_.”

You bobbed your head, not so much in agreement as general affirmation that you were paying attention, and stared down into your empty mug.

After a moment you raised your head, curious.

“Because you’re alive… does this mean I have to give your cat back?”

That sneer twisted into something less irritated and more amused. “If you don’t mind.”

“I do.”

He rolled his eyes. “Then it may pain you to know that Millicent has already been retrieved from your quarters and returned to her rightful home. My apologies, doctor.”

For some very odd reason, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be too upset about that. Only a lot, instead of a _lot,_ a lot.

Hux stood and reached out to pat your shoulder. “I’ll get you a cat of your own.”

Your eyes lit up like firebugs. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

The words came tumbling out of your lips before you could stop them. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“So am I, doctor.”

You paused as he turned and stared up at him curiously. “I think I actually mean that.”

He smirked and dipped his chin. “I know.”

You nodded, almost in solidarity—as if you’d reached some kind of deep seeded understanding. Though you were a bit murky on the specifics of whatever that may be.

Hux folded his arms neatly behind his back and turned once more for the door. “You’re dismissed, doctor. Your patient will be needing you, I suspect.”

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.

.

When you returned to Kylo’s hospital bed, there was someone occupying your self-designated visitor’s chair.

“He’s not awake yet.”

You could see that very well on your own, thank you very much. Hell, you’d been the one _operating_ on him not an hour before. You knew when the nighty-night drugs were set to wear off—when he ought to be clawing himself back into consciousness. But overall the comment seemed like a conversation starter, so you decided to take it as that.

“It was a complicated procedure,” you said, stepping up to his bedside, “but he’s pulling through well.” _Thanks you to and your fantastical medical prowess,_ you might add. You shot your guest a narrow eyed look. “I didn’t see you on Dantooine.”

Leia huffed. “I didn’t agree with what Rey was willing let the First Order do to her. And I didn’t want to see my son be the one to do it.”

You nodded and she turned back to her slumbering child.  

“There was a ship—just out of orbit. I stayed back with a few other officers. We wanted to be nearby to help, should anything go awry.”

You snorted and glowered down at the love of your stupid life, catatonic in his stupid hospital bed. “Well, great job with _that_.”

Those painstakingly familiar brown eyes narrowed at you in annoyance before clouding over once more and flitting back to the freckled face resting on too-plush white pillows.

“Thank you.”

A brow shot up. “For what?”

“For saving my son’s life.”

Your own irritated scowl slipped slowly off your face and you turned back to stare in confusion at the lady who was pretty much your mother in law at this point. “You still love him. Even after everything he’s done.”

“Don’t you?”

“That’s different.”

Her lips quirked at the corners. “How so?”

“I fell in love with him when he was already evil and stabbing things left and right. _You_ had a slightly softer version of him to coddle, I imagine.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Leia hummed. “But I love him all the same. I think I always will.”

 _Ugh. **Mothers**._ Thank goodness you weren’t one of _those._

Clear brown eyes narrowed at you in distaste. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that.”

You held up yours hands—defensive. “Hey, my freedom was at stake. It was a great lie and you know it.”

She sighed. “Yeah. It was.”

You glanced at the clock on the wall. “He won’t wake up for at least three more hours. You don’t have to sit here the whole time.”

Leia nodded. “I know. One of the nurses told me. But, I think I’ll stay. If you don’t mind.”

You didn’t. Maybe if _you_ were staying, but alas. There was a mountain of paperwork with your name on it, and legalities aside you had no desire to get all gooey and sentimental with this woman. So you straightened the lapels of your crisp doctor’s coat and turned to head back to your booth.

You grabbed hold of a subordinate as you settled in and asked the clearly petrified assistant to ‘please bring that scary braid lady a cup of tea and some crackers when you get a chance. Thanks.’

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.

You weren’t spiteful, but you did up Kylo’s fentanyl dose. Just a little. Just to see how long Momma Skywalker was really willing to stick it out. On a less cruel note, the walking ~~though currently very comatose and not walking at all~~ catastrophe really probably could use those few extra hours of undisturbed rest. Seeing as how last time he’d been confined to a hospital bed you’d had to literally _stop his heart_ to keep him from squirming around and ruining all your work, you had a very strong feeling that the rest he got _now_ would be very, very important.

Leia glanced your way when you noisily dragged a chair across the tile, but didn’t speak up. Even as you spent a bit too long situating yourself comfortably by her son’s bedside and then delicately reached out to latch onto his hand with your own.

You fitted your mechanical fingers into the juncture of his wrist and began to count. The steady thrum just beneath his skin put you at ease, more or less. He floated consistently at around 54 beats per minute for quite a while. It was taking longer than you’d expected. You could feel the panic beginning to burrow in and make its home in your gut, but it wasn’t too volatile yet. Just the easy nausea of _‘oh Heavens what if I fucked up. What if I failed. What if he never wakes up.’_

But before you knew it, that tempo was up in the sixties and his face was starting to scrunch up all irritated like. As per usual. And then—

“…You’re so loud…”

You beamed down at him and patted his hand consolingly, trying your hardest not to let your grin tear your cheeks. “Of course I am.”

More heavy brow furrowing. “ _Why_ are you so loud?”

“I don’t think we ever figured that out.”

He was making a face like you’d poured soiled milk all over his best black ~~dress~~ robe and you kind of wanted to take a picture. Definitely not for blackmail or anything. You swore. You were 100% certain Hux would also like a copy to hang in a nice little silver frame in his office so he could throw darts at it or something.

“Hux is… alive?”

“I know. Unfortunate.”

“But I killed him.” He sounded like a petulant little child and you just wanted to hug him and his adorable, constipated, growly, self. So you did.

You sat back and squeezed his hand once more. “I guess you’ll just have to try harder next time.”

Kylo’s eyes opened slow—still somehow narrowed into teeny, angry, slits despite the fact that he was only just waking from major surgery. You grinned down at those lovely brown irises and felt _relief_.

“Welcome back to the world of the living.” At that, you gently detangled his hand from yours and began working on checking up on the rest of his vitals.

“What happened?”

“Snoke stabbed you through the back and subsequently all your organs. Do you not remember?”

He sighed and his eyes slipped back closed. Clearly still drugged out his mind. And he should be. You’d given him the good stuff. “After that. How am I alive?”

You fiddled with the Pulse Ox. and nodded to yourself when it read strong. “Rey killed Snoke. I got a new hand and took you into surgery.”

Brown eyes blinked open, befuddled. “New hand?”

“Yeah, yeah. And, as you seem to have glossed over, Miss Jedi cut down the Evil One,” you hummed, tapping away at your tablet—flooding the poor thing with pages of nonsensical notes. “I’ll tell you the details later. You’ll probably fall back asleep soon. You have a lot of healing to do. I had to replace almost _all_ of your large intestine. And your stomach. And your pancreas. And your liver…”

Kylo reached out with a clumsy hand to grab at your wrist.

“Why did you need a new hand?” He observed it critically—like his brain _wasn’t_ all but gelatinous at the moment and his already lackluster critical thinking skills weren’t hovering around the ‘nonexistent’ mark.

You pulled back to switch out arms, so that he could look at the shiny, new, mechanical one over the regular ol’ flesh one that he’d latched onto. He poked and prodded at your knuckles with the intent of an aged scientist and all the finesse of a particularly dull toddler.

“Why?” he asked again.

“Snoke cut off the other one.”

At that his lips curled up into a vicious snarl and the fingers wrapped around your own tightened exponentially.

“ _I’ll kill him.”_

“He’s already dead, cupcake.”

“ _I’ll kill him **again**_ **.** ”

You huffed. _Oh the beauty of drugs_. “I’m sure you will. But for now…” You glanced awkwardly at the still silent guest seated just to Kylo’s left. “You have a visitor.”

He tugged at your wrist. “You’re already here.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not the only person in the Galaxy who worries when you wind up getting yourself eviscerated.”

At that, Leia shifted forward and into his bubble of awareness and Kylo’s eyes shot open wind. It was hard to say exactly what he was feeling or thinking, but your harsh regiment of medications certainly made him more expressive—less likely or able to shutter his sentiment. There was a flash of confusion there, some sadness maybe. A spark of fear.

“Mom.”

Leia’s eyes were shining like glass and Kylo didn’t look far from shedding a few tears himself, and it was time for you to _get the hell out_ and let them have their moment. At your first attempt to remove your arm from his grip, he turned to you with a horribly panicked sort of look.

“Where are you going?”

You pointed. “Just over there.”

His grip tightened. “I don’t want you to go.”

Your poor icy heart was just _melting_ today. It was going to be in a puddle on the floor by the time the evening rolled around. You smiled, soft, and patted his fluffy, dark, hair. “I’ll be right over there. You need to talk to your mother, okay?”

He frowned but his fingers loosened enough for you to pull yourself free. “…Okay.”

You gave his hair a good ruffle. “I should drug you more often. You’re so compliant.”

The emo Barbie glared up at you sourly but didn’t latch back on. You retreated to your booth with a nod in Leia’s direction and the goal to eavesdrop as little as possible. This was important to him, this was _private_. And you loved him—enough to replace bits of yourself with shiny machinery. He deserved some seclusion for this… Whatever it was going to be. As much as it pained you to let good gossip fodder go to waste and as deeply curious as you were, you cared about his already fragile sanity too much to not step out of the way.

You did, however, glance up at one point to see his head ducked against his mother’s shoulder—bandaged frame shaking and Leia’s arms wrapped around him tight.

.

.

.

The crackling black skin stretched across Rey’s arm wasn’t healing. You had considered just cutting out that chunk of her and regrowing it, but the Jedi refused to be put under when her friend had yet to wake himself. You doubted she would have let you operate on her even if the circumstances weren’t as they were, and it was honestly a bit disappointing. You’d never seen this sort of injury before. You wanted nothing more than to perform a proper biopsy. But alas…

Freckle-face and the pilot had yet to leave Finn’s side. The ex-trooper wasn’t exactly doing _well,_ but he wasn’t doing terribly either. He was stable, at the very least. If not conscious. Eve’s team had headed his surgery after you’d kicked her out of Kylo’s OR. Eve was competent, if horrifying and socially inept, and you trusted her to get the job done well enough.

As Kylo sobbed it out with his mother, you ducked in to the South Ward to check on the aforementioned Jedi and her friends.

Rey looked up with a firm glare that wavered only the teensiest bit when she saw who had deigned to intrude on her circle of fucking angst and teenage lovey dovey drama.

“I don’t love him,” she snapped at your internal bitching. “Not… Not like that. He’s my friend.”

From the way that Pilot Poe had shot up stiff as a rod at her exclamation, you had a very strong feeling that there was probably some freaky threesome shit going on here. Or at the very least, a twosome. Or maybe it was _unrequited_. Ooh. Now wouldn’t _that_ make for an interesting debacle?

Either way, you shrugged her off and came to glance over Finn’s chart. Rey glowered the whole while. You glanced down and caught the silver flash of a tracker bracelet locked around her wrist.

“How’s life at the First Order treating you?”

Another vicious, bite-your-head-off glare.

“Okay, okay. Jeesh.”

You spent another moment looking curiously over Finn’s charts and medications when Rey spoke up—voice hoarse and choked.

“Why did things turn out like this? How can—We tried so hard. We lost so many people. And everything is _wrong._ How did this happen? I don’t… _I don’t understand_.”

You glanced over, curious. “You were severely outmanned, outgunned, and outsourced. Your assets were scarce, if that. The majority of your troops were volunteers with no training. Despite the few times you stuck your leg out and pulled some tricks, you mostly played fair against people who couldn’t care less about _morals._ Did you _actually_ think you were going to win?”

Her lip shook but she seemed to swallow down the moment of emotion and instead turned her eyes back to her prone friend.

“You have him,” you said, gesturing to the comatose ex-trooper. “You have your life. Your friend. And your freedom, more or less. Isn’t that enough?”

Choppy, brown locks fell to shadow her eyes. 

After a moment, “Would that be enough for you?”

“Of course.”

“What if you’d lost _him?_ ” The acid spitting ‘him’ clearly referring to your mystical doom Knight.

You shrugged. “I didn’t.” A pause. As you debated being ~~you almost shuddered~~ **_nice_** _._ “And you won’t lose yours either.”

She wiped at her eyes and you replaced Finn’s chart on its hook.

“Did they tell you what’s going to happen to you?”

“Once he’s healed, we’ll be shipped out to some nameless planet,” Poe spoke up for the first time since you’d stepped into the room. “And left to rot.”

“Well,” you hummed, “I guess that means you’ll never have to deal with any of us ever again.” Another pause. “I’m sure Hux will make sure there’s breathable air on the planet before he dumps you, if that’s any consolation.”

“It is.”

“Good.” You stared off at the door leading back to the main infirmary and bit the inside of your cheek. “And General Organa. Will she be going with you?”

Poe’s eyes darkened. “We weren’t told.”

“I see.”

And you did. _Traitor,_ those eyes seemed to scream. _Traitor, traitor, traitor_. You had a very strong feeling that Poe knew exactly what was happening on the other side of that door. And unlike Leia, he had no paternal love for the Knight who had partaken in the torture of the man lying prone on the mattress before him.

“She can’t help it.”

He twitched in shock before his face shuttered. “Of course she could.”

You jabbed a finger at Finn. “Would you forgive him?”

Another startled jerk of the mouth. But this time, he didn’t comment. Rey stared at the tiles by your feet, pensive.

“Well.” You glanced at your watch. Surely you’d given them enough mother-son time by now, yes? “I’ll leave you to your mourning.”

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.

.

_Update: having fucked someone does not automatically turn them into a stellar patient._

_Update [2.0]:_ Kylo was apparently such a fucking cranky bitch that even with you threatening to withhold _future_ sex lest he cooperate, he _still_ threw a fucking fit and overturned tables with his stupid Force powers.

Therefore, you had settled him into your old room. You propped him up in bed with perhaps a thousand pillows and dragged what must have been an entire hospitals worth of equipment into the cavernous hole that was your quarters. If the pissy lampshade noticed the smattering of cat fur littering the once pristine black sheets, he didn’t mention it.

Once he was no longer stuck in the medbay, his demeanor noticeably improved. By day three of his recovery, you were confident enough in his new digestive system’s stability to start feeding him tiny spoonfuls of Bantha Noodle soup. He had tolerated your hand-feeding surprisingly well. Then of course you had caught his eyes, his lips had locked tight around the edge of the spoon, and what followed was a short but firm lecture on how he was recovering from some really shitty stuff, and sex of any kind was _not_ possible. Which prompted another tantrum and for the next few hours his mood was no better than it’d been in the infirmary.

Leia visited on day four. Kylo’s irritation settled into something more placid, and as uncomfortable as you were with Leia seating herself on the edge of the bed ( ~~you and her son had done unspeakable things on that mattress holy fuck~~ ), she fit in well enough. She only sneakily insulted you about four times before you decided that you really did like this woman. It was clear she’d been through some truly terrible stuff, and if she needed her son at her side in order to get over that, who were you to judge? You needed him too. Besides, he acted decent enough when she was around. Like he was afraid of being chastised by mommy dearest. And you couldn’t exactly blame him. She scared you well enough.

By the end of week one, Kylo had graduated to soft but solid foods and you decided that some snuggling would not hurt his chances of recovery too terribly. Seeing as Kylo was the one who was all fragile at the moment, you pondered if this could be your moment _—the time you could finally be the big spoon._ But alas. Not ten minutes after you’d settled under the covers, he was flinching in pain as he strained—moving around as best as he could to get your under his arm. You decided to settle for the little time you’d stolen and wound up doing the majority of the work for him, curling up against his chest and lifting his arm gently so it rested across your waist. You could feel his pleased hum from where his nose was buried into your neck.

After a moment, his fingers reached down to play with the skin at your wrist. He lifted your hand curiously and squinted at it, as he had in the hospital. At least it was the right one this time.

“You never told me,” he began, swallowing a snarl, “Why did the Supreme Le—Why did _Snoke_ —”

“I was trying to help Rey beat him. I wouldn’t take it too personally,” you said, flexing your fingers. “I mean, I would have cut my hand off too if I was him.” You paused. “But I suppose even then I’m still pissed at his ghost and hope he’s frying in Hell, or whatever.”

Kylo went back to observing your palm. “I almost couldn’t tell the difference.”

“Really?”

“But it feels different. It doesn’t feel like you.”

You shrugged. “It’s not me. It’s metal and imitation skin and nerves.” He snorted and you arched a brow. “What?”

 “ _Death before mechanization,”_ he grumbled under his breath, still twiddling with your fingers.

You harrumphed and shifted closer. “Yes, but not _your_ death.”

He froze and you felt his face press deep against your shoulder. After a moment, he lifted away enough to mumble against the skin there.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are. But for what exactly?” _There was certainly a lot._ He winced at that, but continued as you’d bid him.

“For… what I became. You warned me—consistently—about Snoke and what was… happening to me.”

“I did.”

“And even then, when I was slipping, you were there. Even after the way I treated you. After I locked you away.”

“I was.”

You could feel his frown against your collarbone. “Don’t you have anything to say about it? _Anything_?”

It seemed as if he was bearing his soul to you, and as much as you didn’t want to think on his foray into the world of the Sith, it was probably necessary. _Good communication_. You’d tried to stress that so early on. At least, to yourself. And you ought to carry through on that. If not for functionality, then at least consistency.

“I won’t say none of it was your fault, because some of it was,” you said, “but Snoke manipulated you. He manipulated _both_ of us. From the very beginning. He wanted you to fall, and he did everything he could to make sure that happened. I don’t think there was anything that either of us could have done to stop it, but…” you shrugged. “We made it out. And I suppose that’s what matters. And I forgive you, if that’s what you’re looking for me to say. I do. I swear.”

His hand clenched around yours. He was quiet for a few moments before letting out of a huff and frowning down at your mechanical hand with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t like it.” Another squeeze. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“See, this is why I love you.”

Another pause. He swallowed, thick and nervous and you prodded him with your toe. He lifted his head from your neck to stare down at you.

“You do know, right? That I love you?”

You rolled your eyes. “I may not have an all-access-pass to your head, but I’m not _stupid_.”

He flushed, irritated, and it lit up all those thirty-two freckles. You leaned up and pecked his nose.

“I’m just teasing. Yes. Of course.” A pause. “But honestly now, _did you think I was that stupid_.”

Your face was shoved into the pillow for your troubles, but he pulled you back not long after and you burrowed your way into his chest with a smile.

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.

.

.

You removed the bandages with a curious little frown—tongue poking out over the corner of your lip as you focused. Your skin was far more obnoxious than you’d originally believed. The pigment just… It was _impossible_ to get right. Well, not _impossible._ You’d done it, of course. But it had _irked_ you. And therefore you were _still_ irked.

It hadn’t helped that once all was said and done, Kylo had thrown a fit because _apparently_ you had a teeny tiny little speck of freckle on the underside of your lower arm, and _it wasn’t there, why wouldn’t you bother to put the freckle? I thought you wanted to be as accurate to your old hand as possible?_ You’d almost **_killed_** him. What was he expecting you to do exactly? It’s not like you could just take a marker and pop a dot there and make it last forever.

So now, with much tinkering, you’d added an itty bitty freckle right where Kylo had instructed.

The bandages slid off with a firm tug and you observed your handiwork ( ~~hardee har har~~ ).

“You couldn’t just be simple and _keep_ it, could you?”

You flexed your freshly regrown fingers. “Kylo didn’t like it either.”

“You do nothing but drive my point home all the further.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to bare your teeth in an unpleasant sort of grin at your intruder. “What do you want, Hux?”

He held out a small mound of blankets. “Delivering your child to you, as promised.”

You almost died then and there. When the edge of those soft blankets fell back to reveal an even softer, pointy-eared head, you just might have. You scooped the kitten into your arms with a coo that was downright embarrassing but entirely warranted. Besides. Hux was totally a cat person. He could deal. He was probably _also_ silently fangirling at the adorable mess of a kitten that he’d pressed into your hands.

Big blue eyes blinked up at you from a solid white face. A solid white _everything_. Long, thick, white fuzz. That was going to get _everywhere_.

“Kylo is going to freak.”

Hux grinned his shark grin. “I know.”

You glanced up at him, jaw slack. “You’re evil.”

“You would have done the same.”

_Touché._

Hux sent a pointed look at the brand new mound of flesh now proudly residing on your dominant limb. “Took long enough, don’t you think?”

“I had to regrow _half my arm._ ”

He shrugged, uncaring, and glanced instead at the door. “Are you coming?”

“You just gave me a cat. I’m not going _anywhere_.”

A tilt of the head. “To the ribbon cutting ceremony at least.”

You had folded yourself neatly onto the floor. The kitten was busy gnawing on your thumb and you were so totally _enthralled_ you weren’t sure you remembered how to speak. But you did manage to get out, “I’m not going to your dumb Capital opening. I already saw the city like ten times during construction.” You yourself had helped design its hospital. Did he not _remember_ these things?

“It’s the principle.”

“Take Kylo as your date, I’m not going.”

The ginger’s face twisted up as if he’d bitten into something terribly rotten. Instead of snapping like you expected, he forced his face into its usual, bitter, sneer and shot back with, “You and I both know he doesn’t clean up half as well as you do.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Do you know how _difficult_ it is to acquire a cat in this Galaxy?” he finally snipped, going right in for a good old guilt trip. “And a purebred kitten at that?”

You glowered up at him—all the while, tiny little white paws kneaded into your thigh. It really killed the foul mood brewing in your chest.

“I’m bringing the cat.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he puffed. “Be at the gate in two hours.”

“Whatever.”

“ _Doctor_.”

“I’ll _be_ there, okay?” You expected him to storm out. When there was no sound of aggressive boot heel-clicks on tile, you looked up with a sharp glare. “ _What?”_

He cleared his throat, almost awkward. “Supplies were brought to your quarters. Don’t start with the dry food for a few more weeks. Apparently, she likes fish. But small amounts. Or she’ll get indigestion.”

You grinned. _Once a cat mommy, **always** a cat mommy._ “Got it. And thank you.”

He nodded once and was out like a flash.

.

.

.

Despite the unpleasant memories associated with Dantooine, Hux had deemed it the best planet on which to settle. It was where the Resistance had been overtaken once and for all. Where Snoke had fallen. Where the Galaxy had ultimately begun to _change._ It seemed fitting to start the new era here. The climate was pleasant enough. The location was decent. So _boom_. The First Order’s capital was established. A gleaming city surrounded by rolling green fields, lush forests, and an endless blue sky.

It was called Demesne.

Hux had named it. And it was terrible. Apparently it meant something like ‘domain of the master’ or ‘a dominion possessed’ or something like that. It was ridiculously stupid if anyone wanted your opinion on the matter. And equally pretentious. But… fitting enough. Even if no one else what know what in the ever-loving heck it meant. But perhaps that was the point.

Either way. There was now Demesne on Dantooine. And the city was officially being opened and all kinds of parties and diplomatic hoopla was about to go down. Fun stuff.

You adjusted the long sleeves on your dress. ‘Dresses’ were not normally your forte. But if you were going to stand on the stage alongside the leader of the First Order, damn it, you were going to look good doing so. Besides. Dresses were good for hiding things. Like your kitten. Still unnamed.

The procession leading up to the podium was overly long, and by the time you’d climbed the steps and joined Hux on the stage with the other First Order Lieutenants and Captains, you were already well and truly fed up with the entire event. Then, like a bright ray of wicked tar and hope, your bucket stepped up alongside you. His old lightsaber hung at his hip. Fixed up a bit after being speared through, but still a bit dinged and housing your cracked kyber crystal.

Hux began his long and tedious speech into the microphone and you turned to your lovely, dark destroyer.

“I thought you were off gallivanting around the Alurion System.”

“I just returned.”

You sighed. “Sucks for you. Now you’re stuck here too.”

He hummed, and looked ready to respond with some nasty comment or other about Hux’s newest jacket when he froze. You had a very strong feeling that his eyes were following the slowly moving lump in the fabric of your dress.

Before he could inquire after your rapidly shimmying growth, you supplied helpfully, “This is our new child—currently of name unknown.”

He choked and you reached out to pat his back consolingly.

“Relax. It’s just a cat.”

“ _Where_ did you get a **cat**?”

“General Hux.”

He sneered, “Of course.”

Before he could start throwing one of those legendary fits of his, you cut in as smoothly as you could. “How’s your mom?”

He sent you an icy look that said he knew _exactly_ what you were doing and that this diversion wasn’t going to work at all in the long run, but he folded easily enough. “She’s settling well, I think.”

“That’s good.” Not that _you_ would ever be willing to live on Felucia. But, it wasn’t as if the ex-general had much of a choice regarding her relocation.

Your new daughter took that moment to pop her head out of the back of your collar and Kylo jerked backwards—almost as if her teeny pink nose and adorable whiskers were _physically offensive_. She twitched her ears at him curiously for a moment before ducking back down into the fabric.

You reached out to snare his hand with your own, hoping to provide a distraction. You would have to ease him into this slowly you supposed. ~~Children~~ A cat was a decent enough commitment that perhaps you should be gentle in its introduction. Kylo glanced down at your new fingers for a moment and his own gloved ones traced the fresh flesh there.

“It’s all grown back now,” you said, proud.

“I can see that.” It didn’t sound nearly as sarcastic as he probably meant it to be.  

The cat chose that moment to pop out of your sleeve like a demonic Jack-in-the-Box and Kylo snatched his arm back when the little dear dove for his wrist—claws out and at the ready. What a natural little hunter. You caught her just in time and cradled her up against your chest to keep her safe and out of ‘lightsaber tantrum’ reach.

You grinned all the way through the stupid ribbon cutting ceremony to keep Kylo’s vicious, flaming glare from grilling you alive.

.

.

.

“What should we name her?”

“ _Nuisance_.”

You rolled your eyes and continued pampering your precious ball of white fluff. The kitten dove nose first into the black covers and lost her balance—tumbling forward like a tiny ball of cotton going downhill, and barely managing to catch herself before crashing into the steaming Knight lounging on the opposite end of the bed.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” you chastised without any real heat. “You _did_ kill my only other pet, you know. Frederick. Remember him?” You made a slashy movement with your hand. “Chopped him right in half.”

“He _attacked_ me.”

“Well maybe if your weren’t so _attackable_ —”

Kylo rolled onto his other side and away from you and the cat with something that was most _certainly_ a wicked snarl and not any kind of pout at all. You walked your fingers along his shoulders.

“But really. I can’t think of any good names.”

“Darth Vader.”

“Oh _come **on**_.” You tapped your chin. “I _did_ tell your mother at one point I might name my child Leia Junior. What do you think?”

Silence.

Then—

“Mara.”

You quirked a brow. “Mara?”

Another too long pause. He flipped back over and stared down at the kitten with narrowed eyes. “I never met her, but apparently she was important. To my family. To my uncle.”

You scooped the kitten into your hands and held her aloft.

“Mara… Mara. You look like a Mara.” You pressed her smooshed little face up to Kylo’s and he looked downright affronted. “What do you think? Do you like it?”

“I _suggested_ it.”

“Just making sure. Isn’t that right, Miss Mara?”

The cat, naturally, didn’t seem to give a damn what embarrassing noises you made at it. But you were content none the less.

After many long moments of coddling, Kylo reached out—stiff as a board—and awkwardly scratched Mara behind the ears. She pressed her teeny head up to butt against his palm and some of that rigidness eased away. Miss Mara swatted at his fingers with her dainty puff-ball paws with no real intent to maim and Kylo didn’t even snarl when she latched on to nibble at his knuckle.

“…She’s not that bad.”

“See? Cats are cool.”

Mara dangled precariously from his wrist—like some kind of death defying acrobat. The less-gloomy doom monster moved to shake her off and she landed in the mess of sheets beneath with a startled mewl. Only to launch right back up to explore the pillows.

“Do not generalize.” Though he didn’t sound too angry about it. “This one is… tolerable.”

The next night when you came trudging in after a long ass day attempting to organize ~~and dominate~~ Demesne’s newest and greatest hospital, you found a grumpy Knight splayed out on his stomach with a very determined lump of fluff curled up tight on his lower back. And you decided that ‘tolerable’ was more than fine.

.

.

.

Life had slipped into a pleasant sort of monotony. And truly, that was saying something. Because you were not one to consider any kind of boring things ‘pleasant.’ But here you were. Just like those days on Ilum. A routine as bland as dry toast but somehow _… enjoyable._

You woke each morning to Kylo snuffling into your neck and a fuzzy feline curled somewhere around the foot of the bed. You ate your breakfast alongside your favorite Knights of Ren and bitched about oatmeal, even though you hadn’t eaten a proper bowl of the stuff in months ( ~~Hux was very good about providing you with actual, ** _edible,_** cuisine~~ ). Then to the infirmary. Whether that of the _Finalizer_ or the brand, new, shiny thing on Demesne depended on the day. Or your mood, in most cases. Sometimes there was an excursion alongside your _most_ favorite Knight. Other times you lazed around—enjoying life as one of the highest ranking officers the First Order had to offer, and, you know, the ‘rulers of the Galaxy’ bit that came with it.

Despite how ‘nine to five’ the whole thing felt, you were _happy_.

And Kylo, despite his perpetual look of utter discontentment and constipation that would never _really_ go away no matter who much you tried to train him out of it, seemed happy too.

You flipped absentmindedly through the pages of some report of other ( ~~something about torture methods and taking into consideration long term effects of mutilation on medical care and blablabla~~ ), not really reading any of it, when the Ginger General himself stepped into your office.

“Doctor.”

You craned your head—half distracted by the _shwfp_ of the flipping pages. “General.”

“How are things, doctor?”

It sounded like a loaded question, rather than a true inquiry into you and all your mundane daily activities.

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

He hummed, almost pensive, and stared far too long at the ceiling. “As well as they can be I suppose. You’re not getting too anxious are you? Lying here in wait. With no spectacles about to keep you entertained.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you need?”

The ginger stepped forward and handed you a thin manila envelope. You poured its lackluster contents onto your already hectic desk and flicked through the stack. There were a few photos. Disjointed reports. Pages of notes that looked so jumbled and illegible that they’d be of absolutely no use.

“A dossier on a new resistance operation,” Hux supplied, folding his arms loosely over his front for the first time you’d ever seen. “They’ve yet to come forward and properly identify themselves, but they’ve been causing a fuss—small as they are. They need to be wiped out.”

You pushed the papers aside.

“This is ridiculous. There’s nothing substantial here.” You stacked the pages ( ~~all fucking like ten of them~~ ) neatly and slid them back into their cream colored envelope. “If anything, this is a grunt level mission. A platoon of stormtroopers could take care of it without a problem.” And man, if _that_ wasn’t saying something.  

At your irate huffing, Hux grinned. And that light vexation quickly shot into extreme suspicion.

“…what?”

Hux retrieved the file from your clenched fists.

“Nothing. You’re absolutely right.”

Your eyes narrowed. “ _What_?”

He smirked that stupid, smug ass smirk of his and clasped his hands ever so neatly behind his back. “It seems you’ve settled in well then, doctor.”

“Of course I have.”

“I was considering assigning you a more flexible position out in deep space,” he mused. “Where I can assure you there would never be a dull moment.” And there was that terrifying shark smile yet again. “But I suppose it’d be better to keep you right here.”

 _Well obviously._ You had a hospital to run. And staff to oversee. And claims to file— _and on my dear goodness_ , you had actually become **_boring_**. _You._ Who thrived on chaos and horror. And the thing was, you **_liked_** it here. _Oh man, oh man._

It was at this point in your mini existential crisis that Kylo came sauntering in. He saw Hux standing there and his mask-less face twisted up in distaste.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

The ginger held up his hands—as if placating some wild beast. “I’m simply doing my best to make sure that my favorite doctor stays where she is.”

The emo brat’s hand came to rest firm at your waist and Hux’s grin tripled in both sheer size and quantity of pure fucking _evil_. He shuffled the manila envelope into his arms and turned to leave.

“It’s nothing personal, I assure you, Ren.” At this he pulled a tablet from the depths of his cloak and jotted down a quick note. “Just ensuring that there are plenty of viable candidates for our repopulation initiative. You’re both fertile, if these records are to be trusted.”

“ ** _What_**.”

And with that, Hux was out the door and you had half a mind to let Kylo hunt him down, skin him, and dawn his face as a decorate trophy. _But alas_ … The fuck boy was your dear Mara’s uncle, and that just wouldn’t do. So you pointed out a tuft of white fur stuck to the gothic terror’s sleeve and spent a good minute and a half plucking cat hairs from the thick, black fabric.

Kylo tolerated your preening with only mild complaints and when you were done picking him clean and fluffing his hair, you unleashed him back unto the world. You’d at least been gracious enough to give the ginger a head start.

With a sigh and soft smile you returned to your desk. You liked it here. You liked your life. Heck, _loved_ it even. And loved many of the people in it. And as ‘routine’ as things had become… well. It was worth it.

Besides. Kylo was certainly on his way now to skewer Hux straight through with his snarling, midnight blue, saber.

And, well, a _little_ excitement was never a bad thing, was it?

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are. Many, many moons later. This is the end. 
> 
> I hope you all liked it, or at the very least don't regret tagging along for the ride. I may tack on some one shots/drabbles to the end of this thing at some point (particularly if there are any specific scenes or prompts that anyone would like to see) but for now, I bid you all adieu~
> 
> Thanks for reading ;)


	27. Epilogue - Matt the Radar Technician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello. I’m Matt. I’m a radar technician.” 
> 
> You stuck out your hand. “Hello, Matt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So The Last Jedi is coming out this Friday. I've had my tickets for months now. I am ready to have my soul sucked from my still twitching body come Friday evening. 
> 
> So in honor of the return of my favorite emo shit stain, here is some crack. Because I realized I never introduced Matt the Radar Technician, and he is a wonderful creation who deserves his own trilogy.
> 
> Peace.

You were an enigma. An enigma, wrapped in a mystery, tucked away inside the colorfully wrapped box of yet another enigma. 

Armitage Hux was never entirely sure how to handle the First Order’s most elite doctor, and that was unusual in and of itself. The ginger understood how everyone worked. It was what he did—manipulating anyone from the most elite generals to the low-level troopers stuck scraping the long since liquidized rot off the bottom of the trash compactor. 

Occasionally the ginger’s mind would wander during a particularly dull board meeting and he would think of something ridiculous you’d done that morning and decide to compile everything he knew of you in order to better predict your sheer ridiculousness in the future. It had nothing to do with real curiosity, oh no. It was quite simple really. You controlled Kylo Ren, whether you were entirely willing to concede to that or otherwise. But it was a fact. The Sith-wannabe was settled snuggly under your thumb. So if Hux could predict you—control you—then he would also be able to wrangle the most obnoxious and costly person on his payroll. 

Anyways, back to what’s important here: the ginger fuckboy and all his super-duper-important and always accurate analyses.

After much consideration, Hux had assigned you some definitive qualities.

_Hater of oatmeal._

_Lover of cats._

_Domineering._

_Demanding._

_Thrill seeker._

_Inquisitive._

**_Intelligent._ **

Except… that _last bit._ For Heaven’s sake, you were his _lead_ doctor. You’d pulled Kylo Ren out of the grave not once, but _twice_. On basis of sheer will alone. You were supposed to be ‘smart.’ 

And here you were.

Being so—so _stupid._  

“Hello. I’m Matt. I’m a radar technician.”

You stuck out your hand. “Hello, Matt.”

Hux stared at you, openmouthed. ~~Or the very elegant equivalent of an open mouth—ie. a very slight twitch of the jaw.~~  

Kylo turned to him next—awful bob of fake blonde hair curling low over his equally awful fake glasses. Hux fancied he could even make out the smeared edges of paste covering the scar usually slashing across the walking garbage can’s face. 

“I’m going to fix… things. In the infirmary.”

You blinked at him. “That’s not what a radar technician does.”

“It’s what I do.”

You seemed to ponder on that for a moment—brows furrowed low and debating if it was worth your precious, precious time to actually bother picking out the flaws in his statement. 

After a moment your brow smoothed and Hux could practically see your interest seeping out of you. You turned with a shrug and went back to sorting through paperwork. “One of the gages on the North Ward oxygen tank shot off the other day. Almost took an intern’s head off. Fix that first.”

Kylo meandered away to continue his painfully stiff introductions to the rest of the staff in the immediate vicinity. 

“I wish you would tell me before you randomly assign someone onto my team.”

Hux swiveled on you with what he hoped was the foulest of glares. You flipped to the next page in your pile, not even bothering to _pretend_ to acknowledge his bitter snarl.  Usually you offered him _some_ form of patronization.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

You glanced up at him, frown firmly in place. “I like surprises as much as the next person, but Mike seems like a moron, and I don’t have time to go baby-sitting someone with an IQ of negative four.”

Hux damn near choked. 

“ _Matt_.” A pause, as he tried to put together how you just _couldn’t **see.**_ “Matt, he’s—"

“Whatever.” More page flipping. “There are sharp, shiny, things all over the infirmary. Don’t come crying to me when your radar technician stabs himself in the eye. I’m not signing off on that accident form.”

You packed up your notes and retreated into the hovel that was your office.

Hux took a moment to collect his awe at your sudden bought of stupidity and tuck it neatly away into the back of his overly-manicured skull. It was just a brief flirtation with insanity, he supposed. You were certainly prone to moments of… _uniqueness_ ~~to put it ** _very_** politely~~ _._ This was just one of those. **_Yes_** _._ Just one of your typical _oddities_.

.

.

.

“You guys like working here?”

You didn’t even lift your head—focused intently on the pile of muffin crumbles slowly accumulating on your plate. Jaina ignored him flat out. Olin shrugged and sipped at his tea. Miss Sansa Turpt perked up and folded her hands neatly on the tabletop, practically vibrating in place at the chance to praise her department.

“Oh, yes! Working with the First Order has been the greatest and most absolutely life-changing experience I’ve—”

“Yes. Great. So what do you guys think of Kylo Ren?”

Olin snorted into his cup. Jaina rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and possibly even the vast void of space beyond. Miss Sansa paled considerably. You continued to mash the remains of your banana-nut muffin into an inedible paste.

“He—He’s kind of in-intimidating,” Sansa stuttered.

“No he’s not,” you said.

‘Matt’ turned on you with narrowed eyes and you carefully began to dissect the pile of crumb goo.

“Kylo Ren’s a punk bitch,” you said with a perfectly straight face. “He acts all tough, but in reality he’s an emotionally compromised pile of trash who _pretends_ he’s not stealing my cat’s cuddles at night but **_is_**.” A particularly vicious slice into the muffin’s innards. “He uses my towel and leaves it on the floor while it’s still _wet_ and sometimes he uses my toothbrush instead of his and it’s _disgusting_.”

Matt’s face was rapidly turning an angry shade of puce and both Jaina and Olin had glanced up from their respective breakfasts to stare over at you in mild shock.

“Doctor—”

“What? It’s all true. Do you want me to _lie_ to Mike?”

There was a slightly uncomfortable pause as Olin and Jaina exchanged looks—gazes flickering between each other, you, and their pissy superior stewing in his shitty blonde wig.

You slurped down the rest of your juice and stood. “Well, I’ll see you all later I suppose.” You nodded to the pair of Knights seated opposite you. “Give Kylo my regards at practice, will you? He hasn’t really been around lately.”

With that you meandered away, leaving your comrades in varying states of incredulity.

Jaina blinked slowly at your vacant chair. “I didn’t realize the good doctor was so unintelligent.”

“She seems pretty smart to me,” Matt said, pushing his oversized glasses further up his nose—the mess of angry crimson already fading from his cheeks.

Miss Sansa Turpt turned to him with an unusual bought of courage. “Doesn’t what she said upset you?”

 ~~Kylo~~ Matt glared her down and the stand-in medic cowered in her seat.

“No. Of course not. Why should it?”

“Because you— _you’re_ —”

Another bitter snarl had her snatching the remains of her breakfast and booking it for the door.

.

.

.

You were frowning especially hard at the notes for what ought to be a fairly straight-forward case, and Alen was naturally a bit concerned.

 _Was it too simple? Were you bored by it? Was there something else that you needed to be doing?_ If so, he would happily take over the case for you. The details seemed a bit tedious, but if it was irritating you so badly that you were stuck drumming endless staccato beats into your palms, then it was his duty as both an underling and as your friend to alieve you of your burden. Eve might call him soft for it, but it seemed the right thing to do. And surely he would want you to do the same for him should that situation ever arise. ~~In reality Alen could never ask something like that of you. If something was too mundane for _him_ , than it was certainly even further beneath **_you._** ~~

Alen stepped forward on soft feet so as not to disturb you too greatly. When he was close enough, he leaned forward a bit and inquired, “Is everything alright, doctor?”

You seemed to shake yourself out of whatever funk had gripped you and replied, polite but stiff, “Oh. Yes. Of course. I was just thinking.”

He tilted his head, curious. “About what?”

“Mark.”

Alen’s brow pulled low. “ _Mark_?”

You nodded towards Kylo—still outfitted in his curled blonde wig and too-large orange jumpsuit. He was bent over a vent, banging around with a wrench with no real purpose. Or so Alen assumed. At the very least, it didn’t _seem_ as if he was getting much done from this angle.

“Do you mean… ‘Matt?’” he tried, tentative.

You waved him off. “Matt, Mark, whichever. He just seems so… _familiar,_ doesn’t he?”

Alen stared, a bit conflicted on how to respond. _Could you… not see it?_ It seemed so blatantly obvious to him, but maybe you just hadn’t noticed yet. That Kylo Ren was out amongst the flock, dressed in what was admittedly very terrible sheep’s clothing. You didn’t seem to pay particularly close attention to the staff that swarmed your medbay each day. ~~He was honored you even remembered his name~~. Perhaps you had yet to just get a good look at the new ‘Radar Technician.’

“I suppose he does, doctor.”

You seemed to ponder on that for a moment before turning back to the case file in your hands. “Never mind me, Alen. I think I’m just tired.”

“If you say so, doctor…”

That evening, Alen scheduled a brief meeting with General Hux ( ~~He was not so brash as to think he could walk in without one. The General had prior engagements after all. It would have been terribly rude, no matter how important the content of his session~~ ). He stood before the General and told him as earnestly as he could that perhaps you needed a bit of vacation—you were clearly very overworked.

The General just looked perplexed, then irritated, before sending him on his way.

Alen hoped that General Hux would consider giving you at least one day to yourself. If not, he would try to cover a shift for you if he could.

.

.

.

“Don’t you think that Kylo Ren would have had a better speech than General Hux?” Matt ranted, as per usual.

Today his audience was the good doctor, a vague rotation of morning ER staff that flitted in and out of the scene, a disgruntled Eve, and an even more disgruntled Knight of Ren. Olin had been assigned ‘babysitting’ duties ala Hux. Apparently the General was concerned for his lead doctor’s mental wellbeing. It would have been almost touching if Olin himself was not _also_ growing more and more perturbed as the days went by.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “General Hux has a certain…” you waved your hand about a bit, as if that would describe it best, “ _melodrama_ about him. Kylo doesn’t really have that theatrical advantage about him. I mean _sure_ , he slashes things a lot and puts on a good show, but is he a good public speaker? Eh…”

 ~~Matt~~ Kylo looked rightfully irked at that. Olin supposed he would be too in his situation. Not only was the Knight’s significant other _unable_ to recognize him once he slapped on a pair of oversized glasses and a bad wig, but she was _dragging him through the dirt_ all the while.

“Whatever,” you sighed—reaching for a stack of notes. You grabbed a folder for yourself and pushed your untouched mug of hot tea Olin’s way. He nodded his thanks and you went back to skimming through the scribbles laid out in front of you. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s training been going? I heard the Knights were being sent out to Illum in a week or so for a scouting mission.”

“Kylo Ren is doing great in training,” Matt piped in. “A buddy of mine saw Kylo Ren in the bathroom after a training session—he said that Kylo Ren had an eight pack, that Kylo Ren was shredded.”

You turned to the next page in your notes and nodded just slightly, as if your input on the matter was already quite clear and therefore repetition was hardly worth the effort. “Can confirm.”

Olin snorted tea up through his nose and Eve bobbed her head to herself, as if you were talking about changing the chemicals they used to clean the treatment floors or something equally mundane. You quirked a brow at Olin’s look of mild horror.

“What? He works hard and it shows. I give him credit where credit is due.”

And ‘ _irritated Kylo in a wig’_ was back to being regular old ‘ _smug as anything Kylo ~~but still in a wig~~_ ~~’~~ —notably puffing up in self-congratulation at the compliment.

Olin took his half-emptied mug and retreated under the pretense on wringing tea from his sopping shirt. In reality, he needed to escape you and your rapidly deteriorating intellect.

Stupidity may not have been a virus, but who knew when it would begin to spread like one. And if **_you_** could contract it so rapidly and so completely, then Heaven help them all.

.

.

.

**_Boom._ **

“MATT, YOU DUMB FUCK.”

Hux paused halfway through the door. Miss Sansa Turpt was running in circles like a hawkbat without a head, a constant stream of “oh God, _oh God, **oh God**_ —” spilling from her lips. Alen was doing his own variation of rocking in the corner. There was a gaping, boom-sized hole in wall—still faintly sizzling around the edges. And you were smacking Kylo Ren over the head with a rolled up folder of medical notes about a thousand pages thick.

“You.” _Whack._ “Don’t.” _Whack._ “Add water.” _Whack._ “To acid.” **_Whack._** “You _fucking **moron**.” _

Hux gaped as you threw your hands into the air, sending a storm of papers raining down over everyone’s head. 

“That’s it! I can’t deal with him anymore!” You turned and stomped from the room, all but bowling the ginger down in process. You turned on him as you passed with a growl befitting some kind of terrible Boar-Wolf. ~~He may or may not have retreated a portion of a step.~~ “I don’t care what you do with him—throw him out of an airlock, feed him to the fires in the boiler room, have Kylo use him as target practice, _I don’t **care**_.”

And with that, you flew from the infirmary with a final snarl so vicious that it _almost_ made the hairs on the back of Hux’s neck stand on end.

After allowing himself a moment to process what he’d just witnessed, Hux turned from the room and back into the hallway with the defeating realization that you were perhaps not quite the intellectual he’d made you out to be. And that was a blow to his pride as much as yours. He had _hired_ you. You were on _his_ payroll. You were _his_ reluctant pick for employee of the month.

And beneath it all, you were a fucking _idiot_.

 .

.

.

That evening as General Armitage Hux was ~~strutting~~ walking in his usual dignified manner towards the dining hall, he mused over the day’s events and the general unfortunateness of it all. He decided to shove his thoughts on the good doctor to the back of his brain and instead think on Millicent. She had been looking a bit plump lately. Perhaps he should place her on a more strict diet?

And just as he was pondering over the merits of salmon versus tuna based cat foods, he stepped through the doors leading into the dining hall and paused—one booted heel frozen half-way through the threshold.   

Because there you sat—a hideous, jade wig placed delicately atop your head and a tacky orange jumpsuit hanging half-off your shoulders.

Hux arched a brow at you and your getup.

“What are you doing, doctor?”

Your brow furrowed behind massive tortoise-shell glasses. The left frame was missing. The other was terribly cracked. “ _Pardon?_ ”

The word came out muddled—like your tongue had tied itself in a bow and the words just couldn’t make their way out in any kind of real way.

Hux gestured to the mess of green fuzz. “The wig?”

You tilted your head at him and a shock of vibrant green faux-hair fell over your forehead. And in that terrible accent you asked, “What wig?”

The ginger’s lips curled downwards in distaste. And then he saw the man at your side and his sneer froze on his face. The brief moment of mind-numbing horror was squashed in favor of ~~what most certainly a very regal and resigned and not emotional at all~~ **_rage_.**

“ ** _Doctor_** —”

 “He—llo.” Said doctor interrupted. “My name is Nat.”

No.

You reached out and carefully wound your fingers through Kylo’s. In comparison to the absolutely horrid jade wig you’d slapped on your skull, his mused, blonde catastrophe actually appeared passable.

“I’m the new Sanitation intern.”

_No._

“And Matt is my boyfriend.”

**_No._ **

“ _Matt and Nat?_ ” Hux managed to splutter out.

“That’s right,” you carried on in that demonic accent. Your eyes were wide and innocent ( ~~which was extremely out of character and vaguely horrifying in and of itself~~ ), but the ginger General could see the beginnings of a fiendish smile twitching at the corners of your lips. You smothered the quirk fairly swiftly, but it was _there._ He had _seen_ it. _And you were a goddamn **sociopath**. _

You leaned over and planted a fat _smack_ of a kiss on Matt’s cheek. With lips still hovering over the horribly covered scar, your eyes flicked back to Hux and you proudly proclaimed, “I’ve always had a bit of janitorial kink you see.”

_He was going to send you to the furthest reaches of the Galaxy and leave you to **rot.** _

A lopsided grin pulled at your mouth and you said, once more in that horrendous accent, “And by the way, your desk is _awfully_ comfortable.”

Kylo hummed in agreement and the self-satisfied smirk that twisted his lips sent bile crawling up the back of the General’s throat.

Armitage Hux turned—stiff as a rod—and retreated as quickly as a he could ( ~~while doing his best to ensure it did not look as if he was _actively_ retreating~~). And despite your perfectly serious expression, he could clearly hear your laughter echoing in his far-more-red-than-usual ears.

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“Do you _actually_ have a ‘janitorial kink’?”

You pulled the wig off your head and shook out your thoroughly matted hair. _Ah. Sweet, sweet, sweaty freedom._

“Did _you_ actually fuck me on Hux’s desk?”

Kylo’s face contorted into the expression-equivalent of curdled milk and you decided to take a bit of pity on the poor man.

“I know, I know. ‘ _Hux is gross and you want him in absolutely no part of our relationship,’_ etcetera, etcetera.” You stepped forward so that you could reach up and pluck those awful glasses off his nose. “And no. I don’t have the hots for the sanitation staff, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I wasn’t _concerned_ ,” he sneered—all snippy and constipated-looking as per usual. Despite the fact that your hands were currently combing through his equally wig-mused hair, and he didn’t seem like he was half as irritated as he was trying to appear. “You were very convincing.”

“Thank you.” Your fingers caught on a particularly irritating knot and you spent a moment fussing over it. “I’m sorry I smacked you all those times.”

He scoffed, hands settling at your hips. “No you’re not.”

_True enough._

“Okay, at least a _little_.”

Kylo hummed, eyes slipping closed as you continued your grooming. “Do you really hate that I leave my towel on the floor?”

“Yes. I do hate that you leave **_my_** towel on the floor.”

 “But you called me attractive.”

 “You do have a very admirable physique, yes.”

His lips hovered at your forehead and you grinned into his chest, taking a moment to burrow your nose into the dark fabric there. It had been fun driving Hux and the rest of your ~~friends~~ coworkers further and further into insanity, but it had been so much _work_. And now all you wanted was an evening alone with your dashing Knight and his self-proclaimed eight pack.

“You know,” you mumbled. “I counted. It’s actually only six.”

You could feel the sharp downturn of his lips as he scowled into your hair and your own curled further.  

You propped your chin against his collar bone—or more accurately, the hollow just beneath, as it was as far as you could reach without pushing up onto your tiptoes. You smirked up at him and winked from behind your awful, half-smashed glasses.

“We could always work on that.”

The snarl remained, though the majority of the acid had seeped out of it. “I thought you wanted to keep this charade up for the rest of the day?”

He didn’t sound overly attached to the idea, and you could already feel the fingers at your hips moving in soft circles against the skin there.

You shrugged and reached up to clasp your arms around his neck. “Eh. I think we broke Hux enough for the next week or so. I think we deserve a break, no?”

Kylo’s lips descended to meet yours and you reciprocated happily—content with the knowledge that somewhere on the opposite side of the base, the ginger fuck boy was surely rocking himself back and forth in a corner and wishing for the sweet release of death.

Or, well, something like that.

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End file.
